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HIS PRISON BARS; 


AND 


THE WAY OF ESCAPE. 


BY 

HOPKINS. 




r NO § -y 


RURAL HOME PUBLISHING CO. 
Rochester, N. Y. 

HURD AND HOUGHTON, 

New York. 


Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1874, 

By a. a. Hopkins, 

In the Office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington, D. C. 


KiVERsiDE, Cambridge: 

STEREOTYPED AND PRINTED BY 
H. O. HOUGHTON AND COMPANY. 


ONE WHOM A FEW OF US KNOW AS 


GERALDINE, 

Etfs Uolumc 


TENDERLY INSCRIBED. 






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PREFATORY. 


He was just a common man. That is to say, he was 
not one of the few, set high up by Genius, and standing, 
so to speak, alone. Talent of a kind, or of several kinds, 
he certainly possessed. The world spoke of his “gifts,” 
and so I suppose he was gifted. But the many have gifts 
as great as had he ; and his talent was not extraordinary. 
He had some tact, and considerable assurance. He was 
pliable : he could adapt himself to places and demands. 
He was reputed shrewd, and not without reason, since he 
could not have become all that he did become, lacking 
shrewdness. Yet he was voluntarily in prison. 

His prison bars were of a common kind. You and I 
have seen the same a thousand times. You are fortunate, 
indeed, if you have never looked out from behind them. 
I have seen them well gilded, and so attractive men would 
smile upon them. I have beheld them jagged and rough, 
frowning with hard suggestion and cruel fact. How did 
his look to him ? Were they in his sight prison bars at 
all ? Not for long years. Not until he had gone out and 
in between them, free and yet not free, until toward mid- 
dle life. 

Before that time came there were years of experience, 
of hard work, of ambitious purpose, of partial successes, 
of miserable failures, of bitter but unavailing repentance. 
With these my story has to do. 



CONTENTS 


Chapter I. 

A Boy’s Outlook .... 

PAGE 

9 

II. 

Natural Fruit .... 

14 

III. 

Going with the Grain . 

. 18 

IV. 

The New Boy .... 

22 

V. 

Getting On ..... 

26 

VI. 

The Solemn Answer . 

30 

VII. 

The Shadow of Death . 

• 34 

VIII. 

Two Influences .... 

. . 38 

IX. 

Hon. Israel Bremm .... 

. 41 

X. 

A New Consciousness . 

45 . 

XL 

Glimpses of Baylan 

. . 48 

XII. 

Ups and Downs .... 

53 

XIII. 

Political Association 

. . 56 

XIV. 

The Jolly Member . . . • 

60 

XV. 

Geraldine Faythe .... 

. 64 

XVI. 

An Evening at Stone’s 

69 

XVII. 

A Wild Ride 

• • 75 

XVIII. 

A Look in at Liscomb 

. . 78 

XIX. 

The End of a Ride .... 

. 82 

XX. 

Getting Well .... 

88 

XXL 

A Complaining Woman . 

. 91 

XXII. 

Looking Ahead .... 

• • 95 

XXIII. 

Political Place .... 

• 99 

XXIV. 

Coble’s Cave 

io 3 

XXV. 

An Under-Ground Experience 

. 109 

XXVI. 

a" Good Day ..... 

116 

XXVII. 

The Old Story .... 

. 120 

XXVIII. 

Political Mission 

125 

XXIX. 

Two Evenings . . 

. 129 


CONTENTS. 


viii 


PAGE 

Chapter XXX. Hope’s Disappointment .... 137 

XXXI. The Contest for Senator . . .141 

XXXII. The Great Upgiving .... 146 

XXXIII. At the Front 154 

XXXIV. “Missing” 164 

XXXV. A Night in an Ambulance . . . 169 

XXXVI. The Village Hero 174 

XXXVII On the Stump 178 

XXXVI H. Geraldine Faythe’s Decision . . 183 

XXXIX. Winning Hope 187 

XL. Political Success 192 

XLI. A Sore Struggle 197 

XLII. “Vanity of Vanities” .... 302 

XLIH. In Congress 210 

XLIV. The Failure of Success . . . 213 

XLV. A Hungering 219 

XLVI. The Strait of Love .... 224 

XLVH. Nigh to the End 229 

XLVIII. Smitten Down 234 

XLIX. At the Last 244 

L. “ He that Overcometh ”... 250 


HIS PRISON BARS; 


AND 

THE WAY OF ESCAPE. 


CHAPTER I. 

A boy’s outlook. 

“Johnnie! Johnnie!” 

It was a woman’s voice, calling up the stairway of an 
old-fashioned house. 

“Johnnie! Johnnie!” 

It rang out shrill and crisp in the morning air, and was 
enough, one would think, to wake either of the Seven 
I Sleepers. 

j “ yohn -\-\\^ ! ” said the voice, after a short pause, put- 
i ting special emphasis on the first syllable. 

: “ J ohn-nie ! ” after another pause, the emphasis this time 

{ reversed. 

' All the echoes of the roomy chambers were aroused, 
but no satisfactory response came back. 

“Johnnie Bremml” 

I It was shorter and sharper now, and brought forth in 
! answer a drawling — 

: “ Y-e-s.” 

“Get up, Johnnie Bremm ! Don’t you wait another 
minute ! Here I ’ve been calling, and calling, and you as 
dumb as a door-post. An’t you ashamed of yourself ? 


10 


HIS PRISON PARS, 


Get up, I tell you ! Your father ’ll be up there pretty 
quick, if you an’t lively.” 

When the boy came down, he looked vexed and un- 
willing. 

‘‘ An’t you ashamed of yourself ? ” his mother again 
inquired. “ Here ’t is sunrise, and not a cow milked. 
Most likely the cows are all clear over beyond the hill, 
too, and you ’ll be another hour gettin’ ’em. Why can’t 
you get up in decent season, I ’d like to know ? ” 

The boy somewhat sullenly drew on his boots, which he 
took from under a lounge in one corner of the kitchen, 
and without saying a word went about his morning duty. 
As he left the room his father entered it. 

“I’ve got that boy up at last,” the mother said, com- 
plainingly. “ He does try my patience so. What we shall 
do with him I don’t see. He never wants to go to bed at 
night, and he never wants to get up in the morning. I 
called him just now until I was tired. I do wish you ’d 
take him in hand.” 

“Oh, never mind, mother, he’s growing now,” was the 
reply. “ Be easy with him ! ” 

“ Easy ! you ’d ruin the child with your easiness. What 
he wants is for some one to be hard with him a while. 
He’s growing lazier and lazier, every day. He won’t 
want to get up at all, pretty soon.” 

Then the father went out, and the mother, for lack of 
better auditory, talked to herself. “ Easy ! I wonder if 
anybody ’d get up in this house before noon, if it was n’t 
for me? John Bremm is the easiest man ever I knew. 
No wonder he says ‘ be easy ’ with that boy. He ’s a chip 
of the old block, that boy is — just a chip of the old 
block ; willing to lie abed half the day, and let everything 
go to the dogs. We shouldn’t have had a cent, if it 
had n’t been for me. Easy 


A BOV^S OUTLOOK. 


II 


Words cannot express the contempt which this good 
woman threw into the dissyllable emphasized. No pict- 
ure could quite depict the scorn in her manner, as she 
moved from the stove to the pantry, while commencing 
breakfast. 

Out in the clear, frosty October morning went Johnnie 
Bremm. True enough, the cows were far away, behind 
the hill, as his mother had said. It was a long walk up 
the lane, and the boy was dispirited. His face had a 
hard look for a boy’s to wear. Every one liked the face, 
generally speaking. It was frank, and fun-loving, and 
good-natured. Two black eyes laughed out from it, when 
the boy was pleased, with an irresistible influence. Just 
now, however, the goodi-nature was flown the light in the 
eyes was not tliat of fun, or happiness ; the boy’s heart 
was turned to bitterness. 

“Why can’t mother be pleasant, I ’d like to know? ” he 
muttered. “ This is just the way it is, all tlie while. Fret 
— fret; scold — scold. I never do anything to satisfy 
her. She makes me go to bed when I don’t want to, and 
get up when I don’t want to, and keeps dogging me every 
hour in the whole day. ’Bert Burley’s mother an’t so. 
What makes the difference, I wonder ? Mother ’s as good 
a church-member as she is ; and mother does lots o’ good, 
they say ; but she ’s so queer. Oh dear 1 I ’m sick of it I” 

Just then Carlo, the half-Newfoundland, came vaulting 
over the fence, his shaggy coat dripping from contact with 
the frost. ' 

“ Hello, jCarl ! Forgot you once, didn’t I ? Get down, 
you brute ! ” as the pet sprang upon him. 

“ I wish I was that dog,” said the boy, a moment later, 
as Carlo went careering after a squirrel, along the corn- 
field they were passing. “ It don’t make so much differ- 
ence to him, if any one speaks sharp to him. He is 


12 


HIS PRISON BARS. 


driven about in the house just as I am ; but then, he ’s 
only a dog, and maybe he expects it.” 

Presently they had climbed the hill, and almost mechan* 
ically, as they reached the top, the boy turned to look 
back. Ever since he could remember, he had always 
stopped right here, and had looked to see just what he 
now saw. 

Close by, it seemed, almost at his very feet, was the 
farm-house, dwindled down so small it reminded him of a 
moderate-sized hen-coop, with a chimney stuck on ; in 
front of it stretched the farm, or part of it, and other 
farms, their fences straggling olf here and there, and 
coming together at intervals, as if uncertain of their 
course ; beyond, across the narrow valley, rose a hill 
range, twin to this upon wliich he stood ; and away to 
the left ran the two ranges,' appearing to come closer and 
closer to each other, until one tall mountain peak, which 
loomed clean-cut against the sky, stood as their bond of 
union, though in truth it was miles from either, being 
quite detached from both. 

Off to the left, not over two or three miles distant, was 
Liscomb, the county seat, proud of its pretty park, its 
half a dozen churches, its new jail, its shaded streets, its 
Female Seminary, and its two newspapers. A mimic 
river coursed the valley’s length, far as the eye could 
reach, — a silver thread, tangled in among the fields yet 
green with a season’s late freshness. 

The year was in its glory, and this picture which John- 
nie Bremm saw had rarer colors than any artist could 
mix. Close by, on either hand, the maples flashed out 
upon him splendidly ; here and there a sumac blazed up 
like a flame ; elm, oak, and beech rustled rich tints in the 
breeze ; and gorgeousness was everywhere so common it 
almost palled upon the view. All the valley was a-blush 


A BOY'S OUTLOOK. 1 3 

with beauties, and every hill-side glowed with the warmth 
of autumn hues. 

Some subtle grace of October lent its charrri to the 
scene, and the boy stood for a moment as if entranced. 
A hundred times he had looked out upon the same brill- 
iant landscape, and always it had been to him like a 
psalm. He had a keener sense of all things lovely than 
many youth possess, and in his sight this loveliness was 
supreme. 

The grieved, unwilling look went away from his face. 

“ It pays to come, after all,” he said. “ I ought to 
have been here at sunrise. I will, next time. 

“ How much broader the world is, high up,” he went 
on. “ Down there at the house it ’s very narrow, and up 
here it ’s so broad. I ’d rather be pretty high up all the 
while. I don’t like being tied down in the kitchen or the 
cornfield day after day.” 

Then he glanced at the steeples of Liscomb, rising 
mutely heavenward. 

“ Wonder if father won’t let me go to the village and 
learn a trade ? ” he went on. “ It would be ever so much 
better than such a dog’s life here. Who knows what I 
might make there ? If I stay on here, I ’ll be another 
slow-coach of a farmer, I s’pose. I ’m sick of milking 
cows, and hoeing corn, and digging potatoes. What ’s the 
use? Now if I could be a lawyer, or an editor, or some 
such, that would be worth while. An editor is what I ’d 
like. An editor is up on the hill all the time, where the 
world is wide. Maybe I could get into ‘ The Telescope 
office — who knows? I ’ll see what father says, and I ’ll 
try.” 

And full of a new thought and a new determination he 
went on after the cows, light of heart again, and hopeful, 
as it is a boy’s birthright to be. 


14 


HIS PRISON BARS. 


CHAPTER II. 

NATURAL FRUIT. 

It was a quietly busy day for father and son. When 
the chores were all done, and breakfast had been eaten, 
they went out into the cornfield, and there labored. 

Husking is work for a poet. That is to say, if it can 
be indulged in out-of-doors, with an October glow over 
all that is round about, an autumnal richness flooding the 
atmosphere, a rare sense of bountifulness seeming to per- 
vade all things. The rustle of dry husks has music in it. 
The yellow ears are like a promise fulfilled. The season’s 
ripeness is full of suggestion, and pleasant sentiment, and 
an inaudible, unexpressed thanksgiving. 

There is a whole summer of growth in the golden 
grain. It is easy to recall all that the days have been to 
you, as you handle ear after ear — all of growth that has 
come into your life. And so it comes about that husking 
is reflective work. sThe work itself requires no thought, 
but it suggests much. For the dreamer, perhaps, the 
thought is mostly reverie, but it is reverie very pleasant. 
For the matter-of-fact man thought takes on practical 
shape, and there are ultimate results. 

Johnnie Bremm was not exactly “a dreamer born,” and 
yet I think he had somewhat of the poet in his organiza- 
tion. He loved beauty in any form. He felt a subtle 
sense of sympathy with everything in Nature. He en- 
joyed natural manifestations, and had his moods, to cor- 


NATURAL FRUIT. 


15 


j 

li 

; respond with the weather. In the little community where 
! they lived he was accounted bright and apt, but a trifle 
inclined to indolence. To tell the truth, he did sometimes 
I shirk work, if the work was not to his liking. 

’ And though husking may be work for a poet, it is tire- 
some for boys. Besides that, it makes the hands sore, 
and its monotony taxes the patience. Only one ear after 
another — how slow the progress is ! Johnnie was a boy, 
and he tired of it. He was a boy beset with new aims 
and ambitions, and he grew restless easier than otherwise 
he would. So, timidly and awkwardly, he spoke of his 
desire to leave the farm — told how he wanted to go and 
get into other work and make a man of himself. 

That evening, when he had gone up-stairs to bed, his 
father broached the matter to Mrs. Bremm. He did n’t 
go at it direct, but felt his way along, as if a little doubt- 
ful of the end. 

“ Corn ’s turned out pretty fair to-day,” said he. “ If 
the whole piece does as well we ’ll have a couple o’ hun- 
dred bushels to sell. It’s goin’ to bring a fair price, too.” 

“ It ’s about time something brought a fair price,” she 
answered. 

“Well, yes, I s’pose it is. It don’t pay, though, to 
find fault with the times. We ’ve got to be satisfied, you 
! know, whether we like ’em or not. They’re the only 
I times w'e can have, mebbe.” 

J He laughed a little, as if it was a happy thought, — or 
• perhaps he laughed as a man sometimes whistles, to keep 
1 up his courage. 

“Johnnie was fourteen the other day, wasn’t he?” he 
^ asked, presently. “ Or was n’t it but thirteen ? ’’ 

“Fourteen! Needn’t think I’d forget that. And it 
s don’t seem more ’n ten.” 

'• “ Fourteen 1 — well, I thought I was right. ' I was 

a-thinkin’ about it to-day.” 


i6 


HIS PRISON BARS. 


She looked at him curiously, to see what he might be 
coming at. 

“ We ’ll have to be thinking what we ’ll make of him, 
’fore long, I calc’late.” 

“ ’T won’t take a great deal o’ thinking, to my mind,” 
she said, promptly. “ I don’t want to see my boy any- 
thing better ’n my father was.” 

“ Squire Garsley was a good farmer, true ’s you live, 
and I’d like to have Johnnie like him. But you see 
Johnnie an’t like some boys.” 

“ No, but he ’s a good deal like one man I know,” she 
■ said. “ He has n’t got the right turn for a farmer. But 
he ’ll never make nothing else,” she went on. 

“ That ’s what you always say, mother. Mebbe you ’re 
right. I dunno. Had n’t we better let him try, though ? ” 

“Try what? ” 

“Well, I’ll tell you. He wants to go to Liscomb and 
learn a trade. He thinks mebbe he could make a man 
of himself.” 

“The Lord makes men.” 

“No, mother, I don’t ’xactly agree with you. Men 
grow. The Lord never made more ’n one man. ’N’ I ’ve 
been wonderin’ if Johnnie mightn’t grow into a bigger 
man if we let him have his way.” 

“There are enough big men already. Better make 
him honest. I want to see my boy grow to be an honest 
man.” 

“ So do I, mother. I ruther think he ’ll be honest, any- 
how ; he comes o’ honest stock. There wan’t many men 
the equal o’ Squire Garsley for honesty.” 

“ If he learns a trade he ’ll never have nothing,” she 
declared. “Always a-livin’ from hand to mouth. I 
want to see my boy forehanded. What trade does he 
want to learn ? ” 


NATl/J^AL FRUIT. 


17 

“ He ’s took a queer notion he ’d like to be a printer. 
Wants to go in ‘The Telescope’ office, he says. Thinks 
he might get to be an editor.” 

“ Dear me ! dear me ! Worse and worse ! Who ever 
knew an editor to be worth his salt ? What will the boy 
get into his head next, I’d like to know. I wonder if 
you think I ’d let my boy be an editor ? It may be all 
very genteel, but who cares for that? A good, honest 
farmer ’s good enough for me.” 

“Yes, I know. But you see boys an’t all alike, and 
Johnnie don’t take to farming, any way, as you say. 
Mebbe we hadn’t better force him out o’ his bent. I 
don’t think I was cut out for farming, and I ’m against 
spoilin’ a good mechanic in makin’ a poor farmer. Men 
grow, and other men help ’em. I take it fruit, with any 
of us, is mostly natural fruit. You can’t graft a farmer 
on to a mechanic and gain anything. It’s right agin 
nature.” 

“Humph!” 

That was her only reply. Johnnie heard it, for he had 
been an interested listener to all the talk. He knew just 
how his mother looked, whenever she half breathed, half 
ejaculated, this one answer to any proposition she was 
downright opposed to, but against which she could not 
at the moment raise a valid argument. 

And Johnnie crept off to bed in a humor somewhat 
like that of the morning, and far from confident that 
hopes which his father had rather encouraged would be 
in any way fulfilled. 

2 


HIS PRISON BARS, 


i8 


CHAPTER III. 

GOING WITH THE GRAIN. 

Not a word more was said about Johnnie’s going away, 
for a whole month. The boy knew his mother too well 
to presume upon opening any discussion with her, and 
went around for the most part silent, and altogether dis- 
satisfied. Mr. Bremm so thoroughly understood his wife 
that he wisely held his peace. 

“You’ve got to go with the grain, with Honor,” he 
reasoned. “ She jest worships that boy, but she don’t let 
it crop out much. She is kind o’ set on some things, 
and it an’t no use tryin’ to turn ’er. We must let her 
take her time, and be kind o’ easy with her.” 

When November came, Mr. and Mrs. Bremm went over 
to Liscomb to trade, — or he went to mill, and she to do 
the trading. Before he started homeward, he stopped in 
at “The Telescope” office. 

“You don’t want any boy to learn the trade, do you?” 
he questioned, awkwardly, of the editor. 

The editor looked up from a paper he was clipping, 
and answered, as if amused, — 

“No; Just engaged one. Lives out near you, too,” for 
this editor knew every one within a radius of ten miles 
or more. 

“ Does he ? Some one o’ the neighbors’ boys, I s’pose. 
What ’s his name ? ” 

“John Bremm.” 


GOING WITH THE GRAIN 1 9 

“ Oh ! Mis’ Bremm ’s been here, has she ? ” he said, at 
once catching the clew. 

“Yes.” 

“ Think likely you can make anything of the boy ? ” 

“Can’t say, I’m sure. It’ll depend a good deal on 
the boy.” 

“Well, Johnnie’s bright enough, and he means well. 
I hope he ’ll satisfy you. , Good day.” 

And he went out, more pleased by his wife’s procedure 
than he cared to show. 

“ Honor’s heart ’s all right,” he said to himself. “ She 
sort o’ goes by contraries. She don’t mean half what 
, she says. I ’m powerful glad she ’s come around, for the 
boy really seems bent on this thing. Wonder when 
j she ’ll let on about it ? ” 

It was not until evening that she “let on.” ^ Johnnie 
I had gone to bed. 

“I suppose John ’ll have to have a new suit of 
clothes,” she said. 

“I don’t know,” he. answered. “ An’t he dressed well 
' enough, now ? ” 

; “Not to go off to live among other folks. If he ’s go- 
jing to/work in the village, he must have clothes he won’t 
ibe ashamed of. I want my boy to look as tidy as other 
jboys.” 

I The way in which she always emphasized the possess- 
ive pronoun, when speaking of her boy, suggested sole 
and undivided ownership. 

1 “ I bought some cloth to-day, for him a whole suit,” 

[she went on. “Here it is — plain, but ’ll wear, and 
: won’t show dirt. It ’ll wash, too. I shall make it all up 
this week and next, and he can go by the middle of the 
! month. They’ll take him into ‘The Telescope’ office, 
then. I went to see. I ’xpect ’t won’t amount to any- 
thing, but he can learn for himself.” 


20 


HIS PRISON BARS. 


“ Yes, he ’ll have a good chance to learn. It ’ll be as 
good as a school for him, mebbe.” 

“ Without any school-master.” 

“ Well, sometimes folks can learn without school-mas- 
ters. Mebbe he will. He’s quick. Who knows but 
he ’ll some day make us proud of him, mother \ ” 

There was very little more said about the matter, be- 
tween them, for several days. Mr. Bremm told Johnnie, 
next morning, that it was decided he should go, and the 
boy grew hourly into new consciousness. He was near 
to a turning-point in life. How much it meant to him, 
only those can appreciate who have stood right where he 
stood, and have looked out upon an unknown world 
which they would speedily enter. His days and nights 
were equally full of dreams. Ah ! if all of boyhood’s 
dreaming, could but find its realization ! 

He was to come home often, to spend Sunday; and 
the going away had less of homesick dread in it than he 
would else have experienced. For no matter how ear- 
nest may be a boy’s longing for broader opportunities, he 
does not stand upon the threshold of those opportunities 
without a desire to shrink back. At the last, home-love 
is strong. Youthful associations have a keen relish. It 
is harder to leave than he supposed. 

In those last few days at home, every attractive spot 
was visited. Every pleasant morning or evening he 
climbed the hill, for its outlook. He loved places, as if 
they were of human kind, and it was harder to leave his 
favorite haunts than to bid his mother good-by. 

Yet she was softened somewhat. Day after day she 
stitched away upon the boy’s clothes, and all the time 
she was at work upon his life. His life, and her own. 
She lived over again those rare hours when as yet there 
was no sound of baby in the house, although the little 


GOING WITH THE GRAIN. 


21 


garments had begun to take shape. She recalled all the 
sweet expectancy of that season, when gray hairs had not 
hinted of age, and girlhood was not wholly a memory. 
She thought with tender regret of the two dead little ones 
they had put out of sight, before this third one came. 
And if at intervals the tears gathered in eyes quite un- 
used to weeping, and if some sighs were breathed over 
hopes quite unfulfilled, I do not think it strange. She 
had been a merry, fun-loving girl, once. She was now a 
hard-worked, middle-aged woman, whose wine of life had 
largely turned sour. 


22 


HIS PRISON BARS. 


CHAPTER IV. 

THE NEW BOY. 

“ Will the new boy come to-day, father ? ” 

“Yes. He’ll be here to dinner. You must try and 
make him feel at home.” 

Little Hope Hensell asked the question, and her 
father answered it. Her father owned and edited “ The 
Telescope,” which was the best patronized paper in Lis- 
comb. He was a man of really fine ability, and his 
paper was made up with care and in good taste. His 
reading had been extensive, and his acquaintance with 
the best literature was intimate. 

Hope was his only child. She divided his attention 
with “ The Telescope.” Young as she was, she shared 
his reading — of the more literary sort — and helped him 
out at odd times by “ clipping ” for him, from the numer- 
ous exchanges he nightly brought home. She had thus 
early developed the literary instinct, and her father be- 
gan to wonder if some time she might not do fairly with 
her pen. 

There was nothing remarkable about Hope’s face, ex- 
cept the eyes. She was not an especially pretty child. 
Her features were rather irregular, though the general 
contour of her face was good. But the eyes — they were 
large and intensely brilliant, though their exact color few 
could determine. At times they seemed dark to black- 


THE NEW BOY. 


23 

ness ; again they looked only deep blue ; and yet again 
they appeared a brownish gray. Their color, indeed, 
seemed to change with every new expression of feature, 
and to shed a new light over the face. 

Johnnie Bremm’s introduction to work of the types 
was as a strange revelation to him. Of course he ac- 
complished little or nothing the first few days. The 
apprentice, — the “ devil ” of the office, — he could give 
but an odd half-hour, now and then, to learning a com- 
positor’s art. In his sight those dainty little bits of 
metal, which the type-setters picked up so deftly, and 
ranged rapidly in line, were nearly magical. The presses 
also, and even the dingy ink, were magically possessed. 
He stood quite in awe of the trade he had come to learn 
— in awe of the grimy-handed men at their cases, who 
had long known that trade — in awe, that was almost 
reverence, of the man who sat in a snuggery apart from 
the main office, and wrought at his editorial desk. To 
Johnnie’s unsophisticated belief, an editor was wisdom 
personified — the very embodiment of knowledge. He 
fairly trembled in the editorial presence. He entered 
into that presence as into a veritable holy of holies. 

I mean at the outset. Gradually, as he came into 
familiarity with the business and its belongings, he grew 
to see that there was no magic in anything about him — 
that the men who toiled at the types, and the man who 
wielded pen and scissors, were very like other men, and 
just human. The mystical art of printing he found but a 
matter of skill, and painstaking, and taste, and common- 
sense. What patient effort had been required to make it 
so simple, he may not have imagined, as few indeed do 
imagine, but he was quick to divine the real secret of suc- 
cess in it — care and patience, well directed and unceas- 
ing. 


HIS PRISON BARS. 


24 

At Mr. Hensell’s house the boy had a shy reception 
from Hope, when first he appeared there, but they pres- 
ently became well acquainted, and good friends. Both 
were inveterate readers, and both took kindly to whatever 
sort of reading was placed in their way. 

It was not long before Mr.'Hensell took note of John- 
nie’s bookish inclinations, and began to encourage and 
help him in many ways. The editor’s library was large, 
and though very miscellaneous in character, it contained 
many volumes especially profitable and interesting to the 
young ; and these, during the long winter evenings which 
ensued, Johnnie read. Often, to be sure, he spent hours 
upon some worthless piece of sensational fiction, for much 
of this kind of literature drifts into editorial possession ; 
but Mr. Hensell’s direction saved him from acquiring a 
taste for this alone. Then as he learned type-setting, he 
daily perused a variety of matter, instructive or humorous, 
which stood instead of a school, largely, and familiarized 
him with the great outside world. 

The details of his apprenticeship I must pass lightly 
over. They might interest some readers, but my story 
has to do more especially with what lay beyond. Ready, 
willing, and good-humored, the typos liked him ; faithful 
and promising, his employer was pleased. Liking his 
work more and more, very happy in his employer’s home, 
his own satisfaction was uniform. Once or twice a month 
he went to the farm, and always with a certain gladness 
to go — always with the same gladness to return. Mrs. 
Bremm did not grow more sweet and kindly in her dispo- 
sition. She met him at the door Saturday night with 
affectionate warmth ; she took a real pride in his manifest 
improvement, month by month, and would deprive herself, 
if need be, to do for him. But at the slightest provoca- 
tion she would fret at him as provokingly as ever, and 
thus all her well-doing was neutralized. 


THE NEW BOY. 


25 


But for his father, the boy would hardly have cared to 
go home at all. Between father and son the sympathy 
was near and strong. The father’s pride in his boy was 
continually growing. On long Sabbath afternoons of 
summer, they had a habit of going off on the hill, and 
looking at the world from the boy’s old outlook. There 
they would talk of .many things, and it was well for both. 
Mr. Bremm had a certain honest faith in good, a certain 
philosophical trust in the Supreme Goodness, that his son 
could not help feeling the influence of. It shone out in 
his very commonest speech. From the first he had 
thought of Johnnie as destined for a wider life than his 
own, and now much of his pleasure was in the thinking 
about it, and in seeing how surely the boy seemed grow- 
ing toward the breadth hoped for. 


26 


HIS PRISON BARS. 


CHAPTER V. 

GETTING ON. 

“Johnnie’s getting on, mother,” said Mr. Bremm to 
his wife, one night. “ The boy ’s getting on.” 

“Well, why shouldn’t he?” 

“No reason why he should n’t, ’s I know. He ’s quick, 
’n’ he likes to learn. He ’ll make somebody in the world, 
yet.” 

“ I always intended my boy should.” 

Mr. Bremm thought of the talk they had before John- 
nie went away, but wisely held his peace. 

“He’s begun to write,” Mr. Bremm went on to say, 
after a little. “You remember that piece in the paper 
about ‘ Helpfulness ’ ? It was signed ‘ Mell.’ He wrote 
it.” 

“ How do you know ? ” 

“Told me so, this afternoon. Said he didn’t let Mr. 
Hensell know whose it was, first. Hensell thought ’t was 
pretty good, ’n’ so he printed it. Would n’t wonder if 
’twas the makin’ of the boy. A little encouragin’ helps 
an amazin’ sight, sometimes.” 

“ It won’t do to encourage boys too much. They get 
too big for their clothes.” 

“Well, I dunno. Praisin’ ’em maybe bad, but encour- 
agin’ don’t hurt anybody. We don’t any of us have any 
too much encouragement in the world. Words don’t cost 
nothin’. Let ’s be free with ’em, if they ’re good.” 


GETTING ON. 


27 


This was about two years after ‘John’s apprenticeship 
began. In a year more it would end. The third year 
passed quickly. Johnnie’s ambition was fully roused, and 
he made every effort to progress. He tried his pen often, 
and at times with a considerable success. Of course his 
initial performances were crude, and had little in them of 
real originality. Of course, too, he looked upon them as 
somewhat wonderful, and never tired of reading and 
re-reading them after they were spelled out by the types. 

The old story of authorship is ever new, to him who 
studies it through for himself. What one does has a sort 
of interest for him which is unaccountable. The very 
commonest of commonplace takes on fresh meaning. 
Platitudes are prosy no longer. The young writer goes 
over his work with a conscious self-satisfaction that is 
rather ludicrous, in later years, to look back upon. If 
anything he has written be refused publication, he feels 
less wounded than you might expect, for he generally 
charges the editor with a lack of appreciation, or bad 
taste, or undue favoritism. The idea that his production 
has no merit is seldom entertained. As he grows older, 
he loses this self-satisfied spirit, in proportion as he has 
true literary genius, and becomes more and more distrust- 
ful of self, and less an4 less confident. The vain conceit 
of his boyish endeavor passes away, and is remembered 
only to smile over. The purpose is more fixed, and the 
desire more steady. Then has come the season of profit- 
able doing. 

With the third and closing year of his apprenticeship, 
John entered upon the most dangerous period in a boy’s 
life. He was approaching seventeen — young man- 
hood. Indeed, in his own estimation he was already 
a young man, and could with propriety assume the rights 
and privileges of that mature age. Until this time he 


28 


HIS PRISON BARS. 


had lived his quiet, student life at Mr. HenseU’s, content 
to read the evenings away. Now he began to feel an 
uneasy, restless longing, which he could not understand, 
and which he did not try to overcome. The invitations 
from brother typos, to join them in occasional merry- 
making, had greater attraction. Now and then he ac- 
cepted such, and found that joviality was very pleasant, 
and began to question if it were not better to have more 
recreation. By and by he was certain that for health’s 
sake he must study and read less. Next, a set of lively, 
witty fellows drew him with them whithersoever they 
would. 

It was months — months of only occasional yielding to 
outside social influences- — before John Bremm went into 
any real dissipation. He shrank from the very appear- 
ance of evil. But a little yielding opens wide the door. 
After long holding aloof, the young man drew near, at 
last, to actual temptation. 

It was the same temptation that every young man 
comes face to face with, sooner or later. It glistened out 
upon him from handsome decanters ; it sparkled into his 
face from the open cup. It smiled and lured him on. 
Some subtle grace it had, as it has for all. 

Yet he resisted it awhile. As long as he could he held 
himself free. “What would father say?” was many 
times his mental query. 

And while youth thus questions concerning parental 
comment, there will be little going astray. When forget- 
fulness comes, or still worse, a reckless independence, 
who shall say what the end may be ? 

This came to John Bremm. In his forgetfulness, 
or prompted by that reckless independence which has 
marred so many lives, he yielded. A little yielding, was 
it ? True. He merely drank a glass or two of the wine. 


GETTING ON. 


29 


He did not get drunk. Of course he knew there was no 
danger of that, when he took it. He was not a sot. He 
was not so foolish as to take more than he ought. So 
they reasoned who pressed it to his lips. So he reasoned 
himself. 

He only drank a glass or two. But he felt strangely 
exhilarated. He grew wise and witty at a rapid rate. 
He flashed up in a way quite astonishing. “ Never knew 
Bremm had so much in him,” said one of the company. 
“ Sharp as a file, an’t he ? ” 

He only drank a little. But next morning he was not 
so clear-headed as usual ; his fingers were not so nimble ; 
he felt ashamed, and vexed, and more uneasy than ever. 
“ What would father say?” he asked once more — when 
it was too late. 

Two hours afterward a solemn answer came, and the 
young man’s life seemed touched upon as by a sad-faced 
angel from heaven. 


30 


HIS PRISON BARS. 


CHAPTER VI. 

THE SOLEMN ANSWER. 

“ Something ’s happened to your father. Had a fall, 
or something.” 

That was what the messenger said. 

John heard him in a kind of fright. He did not speak 
or move. 

“You must come with me, right away. There an’t no 
time to lose. He may be dead now, for ’s I know.” 

Blunt and cruel, the message. But it stirred the youth 
to action. In a moment he was ready to go. 

They drove rapidly, but those three miles never seemed 
so long, before. A hundred questions were upon the 
boy’s lips, but somehow he could not utter a word. 

“ How did it happen ? ” at last he asked, as they came 
in sight of the house. 

“ Can’t say,” was the reply. “ Your mother, she just 
come to our house, and says she, ‘ Go for a doctor quick ! 
John ’s a’most killed. ’N’ bring Johnnie back with ye,’ 
says she. Afore I could put any questions to her she 
was half-way back to the house. The doctor he came 
right off ’s soon as I told him, ’n’ then I got you.” 

They were at the gate, now. John sprang out, and ran 
quickly up the walk, a strange dread at his heart. 

In the entry his mother met him. 

“ Oh, John ! ” she said, “ he ’s a’most killed 1 It ’s aw- 
ful ! ” And she wrung her hands and turned away ab- 
jectly. 


THE SOLEMN ANSWER. 


31 


“ Go right in,” she continued, as he hesitated, and was 
about to speak. “ Go right in. He ’s in the bedroom, 
and the doctor ’s there. Oh, dear ! Oh, dear ! ” 

He obeyed, and she followed him. His father lay upon 
the bed, propped up by pillows and chairs. His eyes 
were open, but they seemed looking into vacancy. He 
was evidently in great pain, and but half conscious. 
John stopped, unable to speak, scarcely able to stand. 
He shook like an aspen. 

“Has Johnnie come?” the injured man inquired, a 
spasm of pain making him writhe. 

“ Here he is,” the doctor answered, giving way. 

John took his father’s hand, and bent down by the 
bedside, swallowing quick and hard. 

“ Let me see the boy alone,” said Mr. Bremm, putting 
one arm about his neck with a tenderness that set him 
isobbing, despite his efforts at self-control. 

I Mrs. Bremm and the physician went out, and for a 
Jmoment no sound was heard but John’s stifled sobs. 

; “I’m pretty near done for,” said his father, still look- 
jing into vacancy, and holding him in a convulsive clasp. 
1“ I fell off the high scaffold, and I ’m hurt* inside. I 
[can’t live.” 

i “ Does the doctor say so?” Johnnie asked between his 
sobs. 

“No ; but it’s so, all the same. I ’m goin’, very soon. 
Promise me one thing, Johnnie : be good to your mother. 
She ’s nobody else to depend on now. She ’ll fret a good 
I deal, mebbe, but be patient with her. She ’s had a sight 
I to put up with, and mebbe she an’t to blame. Be stiddy 
I with her. She ’s done well by you. 

I “Honor’s heart’s all right,” he went on, as if now 
I speaking to himself. “ She sort o’ goes by contraries, but 
her heart ’s all right ! 


32 


HIS PRISON BARS. 


“You hear me, Johnnie ? ” he asked a moment later. 

“Yes, father.” 

“ I wanted to see you a man, Johnnie ; but it can’t be. 
Try’n’ be a better man than I’ve been. Try’n’ do good. 
’T an’t easy to do right always; but do it.” 

He paused as if exhausted. A moment later he re- 
sumed. 

“Johnnie” — speaking with difficulty — “I’ve never = 
spoke to you — about your soul. You’ve got — a soul. 
Don’t forget that. Don’t forget — that. You’ve got — a ; 
soul. Don’t let it be lost. Be good to your mother — 
and — your soul.” 

Johnnie could not speak. He was sobbing painfully. 

“Let your mother come in now — and — don’t forget ' 
— to be — good to her.” 

Johnnie rose and opened the door and turned aside, as 
Mrs. Bremm and Dr. Kirke reentered. 

“There an’t a great while longer, doctor. I’m goin’ 
pretty soon. It ’s all right. God knows about it.” 

“ I ’ll give you something to stop the pain, so you can ; 
sleep,” said Dr. Kirke. “Maybe after that you’ll feel 
better.” 

“No use — doctor — no use. I’m near through. I’d | 
ruther go out — wide-awake. Mebbe it’ll be pretty dark j 
— to see the way; but I — must take — the chance.” j 

The doctor gave him an opiate, nevertheless, and pres- i 
ently, while yet trying to talk, he dropped wholly out of ! 
consciousness. j 

“There can nothing more be done,” said Dr. Kirke. | 
“Watch him closely. He may sleep for hours. If he j 
does not grow worse before to-morrow he may get well, i 
I’ll come again this evening.” And with this he went 
away. 

Wife and son hung about the bedside all the long 


THE SOLEMN ANSIVER, 


33 


afternoon. There was nothing to do but watch. They 
rarely spoke a word. Mrs. Bremm was for once quieted, 
and had no complaint to make. By snatches she told 
how she came to find her husband, lying almost insensi- 
ble in the barn'; how she had one of the neighbors’ boys 
help get him into the house ; how she got a messenger 
started for medical assistance. Beyond this, there was 
nothing to tell. 

At nightfall the injured man aroused, partly, and seemed 
about to speak. They stood by him, in silence. Was he 
better, or worse ? 

“ Honor’s heart ’s right,” said he. “ Be good to her, 
Johnnie — be good ” — 

Five minutes later the doctor came, but his patient was 
gone. In the old farm-house were only the widow and 
the fatherless, and these needed not his ministry. He 
went away, and in his stead came neighborly ones who 
ministered unto the dead. 

3 


34 


HIS PRISON BARS. 


CHAPTER VII. 

THE SHADOW OF DEATH. 

Two whole days John Bremm went in and out, out and 
in, at the old farm-house, as if in a dream. But for that 
still form, lying there in the spare room, he would have 
fancied himself waking from some horrible vision. When 
he went in, as now and then he did, and stood a moment 
by the dead, the vision became terribly real. He came, 
so, to comprehend, in a vague, uncertain way, some of 
the deep things of life. 

He saw little of his mother all this time. The first 
shock over, she took up her daily habit of careful atten- 
tion to everything. Two or three neighboring women 
prepared her mourning costume, and while they were en- 
gaged upon this she went up and down, restless as ever, 
the old mood of complaint strong within her. He ought 
to have known better than to go up on that rickety scaf- 
fold, she more than once declared, speaking of her hus- 
band. What was she to do, now, she ’d like to know ? 

They let her talk — those who kindly stayed with her 
to assist. As for Johnnie, he went quietly out of hear- 
ing, often as she began ; and thereupon she charged him 
with hardness of heart and ingratitude. Several times 
he walked up to his old outlook, and sat there thinking, 
thinking. The world seemed wider than ever, now his 
father was out of it. Who was there to love him } His 
mother ? Oh, yes. Of course she loved him ; but some- 


THE SHADOW OF DEATH. 


35 

how her love counted less than it should. Hope Hen- 
sell } Yes, again. Hope was his friend. She was like 
a sister. She would do more to fill the dead friend’s 
place than any other could. Hope was honest, and 
true. Hope would give him real sympathy, when he 
went back. 

Perhaps it was strange that now, as never before, his 
thought centered upon Hope. It does not seem so to 
me. Knowing, as I so well do know, how their lives had 
grown along together for years, it seems very natural that 
this great loss of his should render her life and sympa- 
thetic interest doubly dear. Take from any one of us a 
part of what we possess, and we cling yet more closely to 
what is left. 

Those last few months John had been growing away 
from Hope. She had had no lot in his outside merry- 
makings. He had hardly spoken with her concerning 
them. He had felt himself surprisingly beyond the sim- 
ple things of their hitherto quiet enjoyment. 

Now he felt a strange drawing near to her, and fairly 
longed for the sad finale of those dreary days, when he 
might return. 

When the funeral came, he sat beside his mother and 
shed no tears. He heard the minister read — at first as 
though he heard not. He listened to the minister’s re- 
marks — at first as though one were talking afar off. 

“ When a friend dies, it is not so much that one we love 
is dead, as that part of our life is wanting.” 

This was the first declaration, made there in that sol- 
emn gathering, which he really heard. It harmonized 
with the mood of his grief. Part of his life was wanting. 
Ah ! what a want it was ! 

“ We do not live our life alone,” the preacher went on 
to say. “ Even the most isolated take some hold upon 


HIS PRISON BARS. 


36 

others. God made us to be just parts of the whole. No 
man can be the whole. He could not be if he would. 
He would not, if he could. And when a part close by 
to ourselves is touched rudely, or is quite removed, we 
feel the touch. In some way we do not clearly under- 
stand, the part has become ingrained with our own fibre. 
To take it away is to take away part of our very being.” 

It was plain that this preacher knew what such a loss 
actually was. Presently he said, — 

“ But if you lop off parts of a tree, the tree will live. 
It may even blossom, and bear fruit. Just so with us. 
The tree’s sap may run freely, at the first, but by and by 
it will dry up, and heal over. So with us all. God has 
mercifully ordained that we shall not weep always. He 
dries up the fountains of our griefs. He bids us assume 
the functions that, as parts of a whole, we are called upon 
to perform, and we obey. In work and growth we may 
partly forget. The lopped life is one-sided and incom- 
plete to its own consciousness ; but after a time it grows 
more comely, and ceases to regret.” 

Would he ever cease to regret ? He thought not. The 
preacher’s philosophy here must be wrong. 

There were some personal words at the close, which 
came home with force and directness, often as he had 
heard similar. They told of the warning which this sud- ' 
den providence had for all, and especially for the son, ^ 
about entering life. They made appeal to the son’s love 
for the father, lying there cold and still, and to his desire ; 
for a future wherein the departed might also walk ; and 
they abjured him, by all this love and desire, to turn and , 
accept the same faith in which the departed lived and ^ 
died. 

“ Ashes to ashes, and dust to dust,” said the preacher, 
at the grave. But he linked with the saying yet another 


THE SHADOW OF DEATH 


37 

that somehow gave it a relief : “ I am the resurrection 
and the life ! ” 

And when he uttered this, John Bremm was nearer to 
becoming a Christian than ever again he was in long 
years. 


38 


HIS PRISON BARS. 


CHAPTER VIII. 

TWO INFLUENCES. 

I THINK Hope Hensell’s companionship might have 
done much for John after this. He inclined more than 
ever to the good. He shrank from the evil. For weeks 
he shunned merry associates, and was content in the quiet 
atmosphere of the Hensells. 

Finally it was settled that his mother should leave the 
farm, a good rental offering, and move into the village. 
John would thus have a home with her once more, and 
she would no longer be alone. 

He was not enthusiastic in favor of the plan, it must be 
confessed. It was very pleasant at Mr. Hensell’s. Mrs. 
Hensell was the very opposite of Mrs. Bremm, and the 
former’s serene temper was in striking contrast to that 
of his mother. He had a sort of dread for any arrange- 
ment which should place him again regularly in range 
of her fretful tongue. 

But his father’s injunction was strong upon him. He 
would do his best to carry it out. He would do what 
seemed best for her, let what might come to himself. 

So the plan was fulfilled, and in less than two months 
from Mr. Bremm’s death, John was away from the Hen- 
sells’, and again at home. Hardly that, though. The 
new place was new, and without associations. The only 
real home-likeness it had was in his mother’s presence, — 
and this did not make it just the home he craved. He 


TIVO INFLUENCES. 


39 


loved his mother, in a proper, filial way; but she was 
constantly weakening the sympathy between them by her 
chronic fault-finding. 

’Bert Burley, John’s intimate in early boyhood, was in 
school now, at the academy, and Mrs. Bremm proposed 
that he board with them. She thought, and truly, that 
his daily intercourse with her boy might be of help to him. 
She also thought — for the managing faculty was still 
dominant within her — that their income would be sensi- 
bly increased by the arrangement. 

It was well for John that his friend came. Albert Bur- 
ley had the sober common-sense which is rather uncom- 
mon in youth of his age. Possibly it was due to his 
organization that he so steadily held his course, amid nu- 
merous temptations. It may be the common forms of 
sin held no temptation for him. I do not just know. I 
used to wonder, often, seeing him go out and in so regu- 
larly, whether he cared at all for the pleasures of those 
from whom he rather held aloof ; whether he found it 
anything of a sacrifice to forego amusements that few did 
forego ; whether he kept so closely at his studies, and 
worked so faithfully, solely because in this he realized 
perfect satisfaction. 

In these later years, coming nearer to his inner life, as 
I have come, and seeing so much of his actual nature ex- 
posed, I have concluded that he always had capacity for 
the very fullest animal enjoyment ; that he could at any 
time have reveled as thoroughly in amusements as any 
of us did ; that he actually kept a restraint upon his de- 
sires, and was a little “ Quakerish ” in his carriage, as the 
boys called him, simply because he had better wisdom 
than boys of seventeen commonly possess. 

The two roomed together, and for a time ’Bert’s quiet 
influence held John steadily to the right path. Such an 


40 


HIS PRISON BARS. 


atmosphere in the kitchen and sitting-room as was ever 
in their snug chamber might have kept him there alto- 
gether. But Mrs. Bremm seemed grown more than ever 
fretful, since her husband’s death. John could n’t help 
thinking that she was angry’ with the Lord for what had 
befallen her, and was perpetually venting her anger upon 
him. Naturally enough, he was not happy where she was. 
’Bert necessarily gave so much time to study that his 
companionship was often of a more silent kind than John 
liked. Thus it was that he came to spend occasional 
evenings out, and that he drifted back, slowly, but surely, 
into the questionable amusements of the months gone by. 

He did spend an evening, now and then, at his employ- 
er’s, but these were somehow less satisfactory than they 
had formerly been. Hope seemed shy of him. He felt 
less free than in time past to talk with her. He was con- 
stantly drawn toward her by some strange attraction he 
could not comprehend, and as constantly repelled or 
drawn away. 

And thus it went on until his apprenticeship was ended, 
and he was ready to take up work as master of his craft. 
Then something occurred which was utterly unlooked for, 
and gave a new direction to his life. 


HON. ISRAEL BREMM, 


41 


CHAPTER IX. 

HON. ISRAEL BREMM. 

The Hon. Israel Bremm had been again elected to 
represent his district in the lower branch of the State 
Legislature. It was for his third term. He had twice 
served his constituency “ with great faithfulness and en- 
tire devotion to duty ” — or so it was declared by the 
resolutions passed in nominating convention. Of course 
he “ had not sought further honor at the people’s hands, 
being quite satisfied with the measure already generously 
bestowed ” — or so he declared in the speech accepting 
nomination, which speech he had been cogitating for a 
fortnight previous, and which was spoken of by an un- 
sophisticated public as “ a most masterly off-hand effort, 
fully sustaining the honorable gentleman’s reputation for 
clearness of political insight, for fealty to principles, and 
regard for the public weal.” 

The Hon. Israel Bremm was brother to John Bremm 
deceased, and uncle to John Bremm living. He was a 
lawyer in the flourishing town of Ossoli, and a rising man. 
Since early youth he had seen little of John’s family. 
His life had been quite absorbed in the struggle for a 
profession, and in the after struggle to make his way in 
that profession. His visits to the only near relative he 
knew had been very rare. Almost without the thinking 
of it, his course had separated far from the humdrum 
path John always followed. John was easy, and lacked 


42 


HIS PRISON BARS. 


ambition. Israel, from very boyhood, had been deter- 
mined to succeed in life. This had been his one dream 
and purpose. To succeed he denied himself recreation, 
cheated himself of domestic enjoyments, willingly gave 
up brotherly ties. He had great native force ; he was 
quick to acquire, and ready to assimilate ; he possessed 
an intuitive knowledge of men. His tact was naturally 
fine, and he cultivated it assiduously. His address was 
that of a gentleman, and suavity came as easily to him as 
did breathing. He was not disposed to put too fine a 
point upon matters of conscience, and if he had keen sen- 
sibilities, as I think he had, he seldom let these stand 
between him and any result. In short, Israel Bremm 
was by nature and education a politician. Having drifted 
into the political arena as naturally as the duck takes to 
water, he was as sure to remain in it as to live. 

When John Bremm died, Israel was off in another 
State, busy with an important law case, and news of the 
bereavement did not reach him until some days after. 
Then he wrote a letter of regrets and sympathy to the 
widow, and tendered substantial aid, if this were neces- 
sary. Mrs. Bremm had never replied. Partly because 
she believed Israel Bremm “ stuck up,” and partly be- 
cause she knew his coldness for many years had sorely 
grieved her husband, and she was now inclined to resent 
any past ill-treatment of the dead, however little she 
heeded it in his life-time. “We got along well enough 
without Israel Bremm’s help when your father was liv- 
ing,” she said to John, “ and we can get along now, and 
no thanks to him. If he did n’t think enough of us to 
remember our existence more ’n once in five years, we 
don’t think • enough o’ him to take any favors. Israel 
Bremm may go his way, and we ’ll go our ’n.” 

By a caucus of his party the Hon. Israel Bremm had 


HON. ISRAEL BREMM. 


43 


f been made candidate for Speaker of the House, and his 
y election was certain. He would have public places at 
his disposal, and he began to cast about in his mind for 
proper persons to put in them. There were applicants 
in plenty, of course. For every position in his gift a 
score stood ready, with their applications strongly in- 
dorsed. The great difficulty lay in making selections 
without seriou^ offending many. He must in no wise 
sacrifice popularity. His constituency must be satisfied 
just as far as possible. All his tact and suavity were 
called into exercise. 

He finally adjusted matters as he believed would be 
best for Israel Bremm’s benefit and the public good — 
you will observe which he put first — concerning all the 
places but one. For this, two of the numerous appli- 
cants were about evenly balanced, as to indorsement, 
and the choice could not be made between them without 
certain offense to all friends of the party not chosen. 
What was to be done ? ” 

Some good fortune just then suggested to the politician 
that he had a nephew, and tact caught at the suggestion. 
Straightway the politician wrote to John Bremm, tendering 
him the place,, and volunteering, if the young man would 
accept, to make a man of him. 

It was this letter, and the tender it contained, which so 
changed the course of John Bremm’s life. He received 
it at one of the times when Mrs. Bremm’s fretfulness had 
waxed bitterest, and when to be with her was a sore tor- 
ment. He was restless and uneasy, moreover, having 
reached that point at which a youth feels a diversity of 
ambitions and desires moving in his breast. Four years 
at the case had made the printer’s craft monotonous 
to him. He had sickened, too, of some of his associa- 
tions, and was really anxious to get away from them. 


44 


HIS PRISON BARS. 


Then the place which might be his without the asking 
would afford opportunities for wide study of men, and it 
might lead to better things. Its pay was quite as good 
as he could possibly earn otherwheres, and its duties 
would not be difficult. 

Having read the letter carefully through many times, 
he promptly wrote a reply, saying he would accept, mailed 
it, and began to feel a new consciousness of importance 
in the world. He knew his mother would object, and 
would strenuously oppose the project; but the matter 
was decided, and there could not be a change. His 
mother did object, and wondered what he supposed she 
was going to do, left there all alone ; but he assured her 
Burley would be there with her, and that he would visit 
home often, and see that she got along well. 

And then he prepared for departure. 


A NEW CONSCIOUSNESS. 


45 


CHAPTER X. 

A NEW CONSCIOUSNESS. 

Hope Hensell was in the very bloom of young 
womanhood. In these four years since she welcomed 
“the new boy/’ she had grown wonderfully in breadth of 
nature and capabilities, and now promised to fulfill, and 
more, all her father’s expectations. Of late she had been 
in the seminary, and altogether engaged in study and 
writing. Nearly every issue of “ The Telescope ” con- 
tained something from her pen. For one so young, she 
had rare excellence of literary style, and her little essays 
and bits of verse showed more originality of thought 
than is common with youthful writers. She had also a 
certain sprightliness of language which pleased people, 
and which made her essays readable. 

Hope liked John Bremm. In all their intercourse they 
had harmonized well together. That she had been in 
any wise less frank and sisterly than formerly, in recent 
treatment of him, she scarcely realized, and could not 
have explained. She had liked him from the first ; she 
liked him yet. More than this she never admitted to 
herself. 

Yet when Mr. Hensell told her of John’s plan to go 
away, she felt a quick pain in her heart, and went off 
quietly by herself, to think. 

That evening John came, to say good-by. Next day 
he was to leave. 

They talked it all over, he and Hope, — the plan and 


HIS PRISON BARS, 


46 

the possibilities, — with quiet Mrs. Hensell an interested 
listener. 

“ It ’s the best thing I can do, seems to me,” John said. 
“ I have a good trade, and I ’m glad of it ; but I want to 
be more than a type-sticker, and this offer of Uncle 
Israel’s opens the way, I think.” 

“ It is very kind of your uncle, is n’t it ? ” Hope re- 
marked. 

“ Yes ; and I ’m very much obliged. He means to do 
me a good turn, I am sure. A hundred young men would 
be glad of the chance he gives me. There is n’t anything 
that would suit me better, for a while. It will be such a 
good opportunity to learn the ways of the world.” 

Hope looked a little troubled. She wanted to put in 
a little sisterly admonition just here, but hesitated. The 
mother spoke. 

“There’s the only objection I see, John. You are 
going to be in very different surroundings from those you 
have been accustomed to. You may learn some ways it 
were better not to learn. Have you thought about it ? ” 

“ Oh, yes,” with an indifference of tone he tried to 
hide. “ But I ’m not afraid. Some things have to be 
learned, I suppose. There is n’t very much more danger 
in one place than in another. Plenty of openings for a 
fellow to go wrong, wherever he is.” 

“ True,” Mrs. Hensell said. “ But the right kind of 
influences about one may keep him from going wrong, 
however numerous the opportunities. I am rather in- 
clined to question the influences you will be thrown 
among at Baylan. You will have no home there, re- 
member.” 

For the moment Mrs. Hensell forgot that John no 
longer had a home with them. 

“ That will not be such a loss, perhaps,” the young 
man answered lightly, but with a touch of bitterness that 


A NEW CONSCIOUSNESS. 


47 

would not be quite repressed. “When John Howard 
Payne wrote about ‘ Home, Sweet Home ! ’ he was n’t 
there, you know. He might have sung another song, if 
he had been.” 

“ Don’t talk that way, John. There are homes and 
homes, I know, and all homes are not equally pleasant. 
But a home — any home — is one thing, and a boarding- 
place is another. I boarded for several years in a large 
city, before my marriage, and understand the difference 
better than you can. Here, we tried to make it home for 
you. It may not be so, elsewhere.” 

“ I know,” he said. “ This is the only real home I ’ve 
had, late years. But this is not mine, now, and never 
may be again. I must do the best I can.” And he laid 
his head on his hand, and sat silent. 

Hope’s large eyes had a look of wistfulness in them, 
when John arose to go, which he had never seen before. 

“ You will write often ? ” she said, with sudden warmth. 

“ Yes, if you will care to hear.” 

Care ! As with a lightning flash it dawned upon her 
then that to hear from him would thenceforward be the 
one thought of her life. The revelation had come, which 
comes sooner or later to all hearts. She blushed with a 
new consciousness, and could not speak. 

Mrs. Hensell saw, and with her motherly tact replied : 

“We shall want to hear, of course. You must write 
as often as you can, and Hope will answer for us all. 
Tell us about everything that interests you. 

“ And we shall look anxiously for the first letter,” she 
added as he reached the door. “ Good-by ! ” 

She shook his hand and kissed him, in motherly fashion. 
Hope merely gave him a hand-clasp, but it was warm 
with the new feeling which thrilled her, and the clinging 
touch seemed to hold him long after he had reached his 
room. 


48 


HIS PRISON BARS. 


CHAPTER XI. 

GLIMPSES OF BAYLAN. 

Baylan is a city of ups and downs. You may not find 
it on the map, and yet it is there, and conspicuous. In 
deed, it has been conspicuous, on the map and in reality^ 
since those clever Dutchmen began it, back in another 
century. It began with many-gabled houses, very stylish 
in the real Dutch style, and it has not even yet wholly 
outgrown these. Here and there you may still see one, 
looking very small and quaint, and reminding you, some- 
how, of a bright little old woman preserved a long way 
past her natural life. In the main, though, it has got far 
beyond the old Knickerbocker simplicity, and wears an 
air of modern smartness, such as the capital of a great 
State is entitled to wear. 

How the good old Dutchmen would stare, if only they 
could live in this new Baylan, which they never dreamed 
of. Their ways were honest and simple ; alas, for the 
ways of to-day ! There are rings, and cliques, and wire- 
pullings, and office-seeking, and none but an old politician 
knows what. Four months in the year Baylan is overrun 
with the strangest mixture of honesty and dishonesty, 
sharpness and innocence, good intentions and bad, that 
ever flooded a community. Baylan never discriminates. 
It is one great mill, and whatever comes to it is grist. 
Legislation blesses it, no matter how the legislation may 
curse other localities. Upon legislation it feeds. It is 


GLIMPSES OF BAYLAN. 


49 

very lucky for Baylan that whereas one hundred and sixty 
men are supposed to make all the State’s laws, it takes an 
average of four times that number to do the work. Great 
is the power of appointment, and greater still is the Lobby. 
The one man who votes, and thus helps declare whether 
or no a bill shall become a law, is but a small point in 
the great legislative machine. 

This is only a glimpse of Baylan, which I give you, and 
a glimpse from within. John Bremm’s glimpse, as he 
reached there toward dusk of a late December day, was 
by no means the same ; but his was a glimpse from with- 
out. To him Baylan was a great promise. Here men 
came to win honor and fame. Here the State centered. 
Here he was to step forward in life. Here he should see 
the intellect of the Commonwealth gathered. Here he 
should come in contact with the wise and influential. 

At the depot, what a Babel ! Had they gone mad, he 
wondered Would they rend him in pieces ? The hack- 
men beset him in solid phalanx. Twenty seemed to 
have lived for no other purpose all their lives than now 
and here to make assault upon him. They hedged him 
in. They blocked his way. They shouted in his ears, 
and put their whips under his nose, and held his arms. 
They tugged at his valise and called for his check, and 
inquired where he wanted to go. They waxed more and 
more eager, until in sheer desperation he parted company 
with his valise, and then shot off in the wake of the fel- 
low who carried it. 

“ Take me to Legislation Hall,*” he said as the hack 
door closed upon him. 

They drove along a crooked street some distance — 
which street he found afterward was called Broad, 
because of its narrowness — and then, turning a corner, 
climbed the long hill to the Capitol grounds. It was but 
4 


HIS PRISON BARS. 


50 

a little glimpse he got, as they proceeded, but that 
impressed him. The houses were massive and old-fash- 
ioned. The sidewalks were wide, and lined with wide- 
spreading trees. The street itself was of unusual width, 
and therefore inviting. 

A slight turn to the right disclosed the Capitol, looking 
out at him from its shadows with a hundred eyes of light. 
(The State never complains of its gas bills.) It was a 
plain old edifice — he saw that — but yet it did look 
inviting. Every window was aglow, and the whole wore 
an appearance of brilliancy which quite dazzled him. 

Legislation Hall was just above, and here he found 
himself, presently, in the midst of a crowd of excited 
men, each clamoring for a room. With a feeling of 
manliness new to him, he took his turn at the hotel coun- 
ter, and wrote his name. 

“ Can’t give you a room yet, young man,” said the 
clerk, who recognized the youth as a nobody. The Hon. 
Mr. Jones registered next, and the clerk was more obse- 
quious to him ; but John had stepped out of line, and did 
not see it. 

He went away from the crowd a little, and looked 
about him. The men whom he saw in groups around 
were very like other men. Surely these were not the 
men who represented a great people. Well, many of 
them were not. They were legislators by brevet. They 
made the men who made the laws, and then they had the 
laws made to suit their own desires. 

When he was tired of looking on, he remembered that 
to find his uncle was his first duty, and as by this time the 
clerk was at liberty, he approached and inquired, — 

“ Is the Hon. Israel Bremm stopping here ? ” 

“ He is,” said his highness the clerk, a little more 
politely than he would have answered an inquiry for an 
unknown Peter Smith. 


GLIMPSES OF BA VLAM 


51 


“ I would like to see him.” 

“ Let ’s see ; your name is ” — 

“Bremm,” said John, “there,” pointing to the regis* 
ter. 

“ Oh, yes, I remember. Some relative of the Speaker, 
are you ? ” the clerk asked. 

“Yes.” 

“ Then you can see him right away, I think. He ’s in 
his room now. I ’ll send up and find out.” 

Two minutes later John was shown to his uncle’s apart- 
ments. 

“And this is brother John’s boy, is it ? ” said the Hon. 
Israel Bremm, in greeting. “ Glad to see you. Glad to 
see you. Glad you decided so promptly. John always 
was slow about making up his mind. It did n’t so 
much matter to him, perhaps ; but to me time is every- 
thing, and I must act on the word. It ’s the only way to 
get ahead. 

“ Come, sit down,” he continued. “ I expect some 
party friends in to see me directly, — several have only 
just gone, — and then I shall be busy. 

“ Ready to drop into your place at once, I suppose ? 
No need to wait. Better get you a boarding-place, 
though, first thing. Plenty of them, near by. Look 
around in the morning ; the papers will tell you where. 
Don’t pay too much. They charge fearfully, here in 
Baylan. It ’s downright robbery the way they bleed 
me here at the Legislation, but I have to stand it. A 
man in my position must be prepared to receive his 
friends, you know.” 

John looked at the centre-table, on which were a 
server and several empty glasses. His uncle saw the 
look. 

“That’s one of the penalties I must pay,” he said. 


52 


HIS PRISON BARS. 


“ It won^t do to be mean. My friends expect me to treat 
them well, and I must. I seldom take any liquor myself, 
but a social glass now and then don’t hurt me. You 
never touch it at all, of course. Your father never did, 
either. You can’t do better than to follow in his foot- 
steps in this respect, so long as you are not forced into 
taking something by custom. I’m not an advocate of 
teetotalism ; but that ’s the best policy, when you can’t do 
more than tickle your palate by drinking. A man is a 
fool to drink liquor simply to feel well, or gratify his ap- 
petite. If he must drink a little to satisfy society, or 
keep up his popularity, that ’s another thing.” 

John did not reply. In his heart he was pained. He 
did not believe the reasoning. Already his uncle had 
lost footing in his regard. He was not used to such 
open recognition of social demands. He had argued 
thus with himself, many times, and been partly satisfied ; 
but to hear another boldly declare the same rather 
shocked him. 

“ You will like your berth,” his uncle went on to say, 
after a little. “ There ’s not much work about it. Most 
of the time you can be in the House, and if you keep your 
eyes and ears open you can learn very much that will be 
of use. Have you ever written any for print ? ” 

John answered that he had. 

“ Then you had better be appointed as correspondent 
to some paper, and that will insure you many privileges. 
I will add your name to the reporters’ list to-morrow. 
Come in in the morning and we will talk further. My 
visitors are at the door, and will want to see me alone.” 

John took the hint, and his leave. 


UPS AND DOWNS. 


S3 


CHAPTER XII. 

UPS AND DOWNS. 

I HAVE said that Baylan is a city of ups and downs. 
Next day, John made himself familiar with the fact. He 
spent an hour at breakfast with his uncle, and then 
started out to find a boarding-house, taking a dozen ad- 
vertisements in his pocket. Of boarding-houses there 
was no lack, but of rooms suitable to his means there 
seemed few. Province Street — the wide avenue running 
up and down the hill in front of the Capitol — was most 
inviting, but a few trials here convinced him that the 
locality was too aristocratic for his purse. The boarding- 
houses, he learned, were mainly patronized by members 
with families ; members whose salary of three dollars a 
day, enabled them to pay thirty or forty dollars a week 
for the Hon. Mr. and Mrs. Member’s board and lodging, 
and have something left over with which to buy books 
for the Hon. Mr. Member’s constituents. 

After much of going up and down, he found what ap- 
peared to be suitable quarters, in a private boarding-house 
on Gull Street, not far from the Capitol. It struck him as 
rather odd that almost every street hereabouts bore the 
name of some bird, and he had some misgivings as to the 
name of this particular street, but these he paid no heed 
to. 

Two days later he wrote his first letter to the Hensells, 
and here it is : — 


54 


HIS PRISON BARS, 

Assembly Chamber, January 6 , i8 — . 


Dear Friend^ Hope, — Here I am, where so many distin- 
guished men have been before me ! I write at my “report- 
er’s seat,” from which I expect to indite a letter to “ The 
Telescope ” in a few days, when I shall have learned enough 
of men and things here to enable me to make up a fit letter for 
print. 

I rather like Baylan — this part of it. The Capitol stands 
on a hill, and is delightfully situated. The Assembly Cham- 
ber is the finest room in it, and here I am to spend nearly all 
my time. I feel sure, already, that I am going to learn more 
this one winter than I could possibly learn in Liscomb for a 
whole year. 

I board at Number 123 Gull Street. I was “ a stranger and 
they took me in.” What do you think of paying eight dollars 
a week for board and a little sky-parlor seven by nine ? It 
don’t take one long to find out that Baylan people propose to 
make all they can out of the Legislature. Two or three mem- 
bers stop here, and a railroad man, and a few clerks, and at 
the dinner-table there ’s plenty of talk. Members put on a 
good deal of dignity when they first come to Baylan, and as 
two of those here are new, we are sufficiently dignified. 
These new members are both young men, and like to recog- 
nize each other’s official position. “ Will the gentleman from 
Bessemer pass the bread ? ” says one ; and “ Will the gentle- 
man from Sleebs hand me the milk ? ” says his friend. 

There is a wag at table, in the shape of a railroad clerk, 
who caused a general roar of laughter to-day. The two mem- 
bers had been pretty free with their official recognitions, and 
by and by, when it was quite still, this young fellow turned to 
the colored waiter and gravely said, — 

“ Will the gentleman from Africa please give me some 
beef?” 

I suppose it was a very impudent thing to do, but I laughed 
over it until I choked. The two members laughed too, and 
we all laughed. 

“ That is very good,” said the gentleman from Sleebs. 


UPS AND DOWNS. 


55 

“ Yes,” said the old member from Lawton ; “ it is almost as 
good as ever it was. It is the stock joke here in Baylan. I 
heard it during my first term. But it is good, nevertheless. 
And one can’t be expected to make new jokes all the while, 
can he, Mr. Clint ? ” 

This may have been a little sarcastic on the old member’s 
part, for Mr. Clint colored up a little, and made no more jokes, 
old or new. 

Yesterday Uncle Israel took me in to see his Excellency 
the Governor. The Executive Chamber is a very nice room, 
very handsomely carpeted, with costly furniture in it. The 
Governor sat at a table in the middle of the room. He and Un- 
cle Israel seem to be very good friends, for he was very polite 
and made me like him right away. He asked me several 
questions, which I managed somehow to answer, and then he 
and Uncle Israel withdrew to a smaller room, and were there 
some time together. When they came back we came away. 

“ I shall want to see more of you, Mr. Bremm,” the Gov- 
ernor said to me. You would like him, Hope, I am sure. 

If I were a small boy still, I should enjoy Baylan for its 
coasting privileges, although the small boy with his sled is al- 
most a nuisance to children of a larger growth. There is so 
much up-and-down-hill here that coasting on the streets is 
very common. They even coast on the sidewalks, and keep 
these so very slippery you can scarcely walk upon them. If I 
were a surgeon, in need of business, I ’d settle in Baylan, 
sure. 

But I am making out a long, stupid letter, and must bring it 
to a close. Please answer soon. With kind regards to all, I 
am, Your Friend, John Bremm. 


HIS PRISON BARS. 


56 


CHAPTER XIII. 

POLITICAL ASSOCIATION. 

John’s first letters for print were not of much account. 
They told of men and things in a gossipy way rather 
pleasing, and added interest to “The Telescope,” which 
now boasted of having correspondence from the capital, 
and quite overshadowed its rival in consequence. Of the 
mysteries of Baylan, as old legislators and lobbyists know 
them, he yet knew nothing, and therefore could tell noth- 
ing. 

It is somewhat astonishing, how people like to read 
gossip. The average of clever people, I mean ; those 
not alarmingly profound, neither astonishingly critical. 
Take the newspaper correspondents, and select him who 
talks least of thoughtful themes, but runs on most about 
men and women of mark, and you have the one whose 
letters please most, and are widest read. 

John had not learned this yet, but he wrote gossipy 
letters because there was really nothing but gossip he 
could write. He gossiped of the Capitol, and what was 
in it; of the other public buildings, near by, and their 
uses ; of the State officials, the Legislature, and the 
hangers-on. Though his style ran much to adjectives, he 
gave promise of very clever work in this line, and Mr. 
Hensell complimented and encouraged him. So, too, did 
Speaker Bremm. 

“ The boy has more in him than I thought he had,” 


POLITICAL ASSOCIATION. 


57 

said that gentleman, after reading a letter in which there 
was considerable spice of personality. “ He may be 
made to serve a good purpose by and by, when he knows 
the ropes better, and has become discreet. I must give 
him some points.” 

The Speaker did give him some points, presently, and 
found him teachable. He caught suggestions readily, and 
worked them out well. He was quick to observe and 
speedy to develop. 

I do not wonder that the young man grew to like the 
new work in the new world. There was constantly an 
excitement about it. He was daily brought in contact 
with varied kinds of men, and learning something from 
each. He was daily undergoing a process of sharpening 
— sharpening of intellect, sharpening of wits. It is not 
surprising that soon he came to look back upon his quiet 
season at the case as a sort of probationary period, and 
began to dream of a wider outreach henceforth. Such 
associations stir ambitious purpose, and provoke discon- 
tent with the past. 

If John could have mingled only with those most moral 
and correct in habit, it would have been well with him. 
He thought it very well with him as it was. As weeks 
went by he became familiar with many about him — many 
with whom intimate acquaintance was a profit ; a few 
whose intimacy could but work harm. He was the 
Speaker’s protege; and that put him forward. He was 
bright and keen, and of a nature to be liked. He was a 
close student in the politician’s art, for one so young, and 
was fast learning tact and worldly discretion. New plans 
for the future were vaguely shaping into form, and he had 
sense to realize that success in some far-away purpose is 
only assured by successful endeavor in the work now 
under one’s hand. What little labor he did for the State, 


HIS PRISON BARS. 


58 

he did well, since he was looking for commendation ; what 
he did outside of that he did up to the measure of his cult- 
ure and capacity, because he enjoyed the doing. 

It is not an essential to political success that a man 
shall be strictly honest, strictly temperate, strictly moral : 
I state a very harsh fact in as mild language as I can find. 
It is notorious that men are elected to office whose hon- 
esty few will indorse, whose intemperance is known to all, 
whose immoralities are a shame and disgrace. How is 
it that they come to be elected ? I am not writing a se- 
cret history of politics, or I would tell you. Indeed, so 
much of secret political history has been of late made 
public, that you could almost answer the question your- 
selves. They are elected, these men of easy political 
and moral virtue ; and you shall see some of them in any 
State Legislature, go there when you will. They are 
“good fellows,” as the term goes, social, large-hearted, 
popular ; men enjoy their companionship, and but mildly 
condemn their faults. 

John Bremm came to know some of these. There 
were no more such at Baylan then, I suppose, than there 
are now, neither were they any worse. They did not sac- 
rifice themselves upon the altar of legislative hard work. 
They loafed and smoked in committee rooms, mornings 
and afternoons ; they lounged in the Assembly Chamber, 
through hours of session ; they went to the theatre, or 
played cards in their own apartments, or went to name- 
less places for nameless purposes still worse, evening 
after evening. Now this is not the ideal business of a rep- 
resentative ; but it never happens that of a hundred and 
odd men all are following out the ideal. A few, at least, 
are sadly, shockingly practical. They preach service to 
others, and practice service to self. So it was with these. 
They would give the needful modicum of drudgery in the 


POLITICAL ASSOCIATION. 


59 


interests of their constituency, but beyond that they seldom 
went. Having paid well for the privilege of coming to 
Baylan, they were willing to make of their stay there in 
some good degree a recreative season, a play-spell, “a 
lark.” 

If a knowledge of some of these things shocked John, 
at first, he grew less sensitive very soon. It was so easy 
to breathe in the atmosphere around him, so hard to 
resist the genial influences all about. Sometimes he won- 
dered what his father would have said at hearing of things 
he but too frequently heard of ; but the wonder was not 
so much a wonder of pain that the things existed, as a 
wonder of pity for the good parent’s innocent ignorance 
of the ways of the world. How much he was learning 
that his father never knew of ! 


6o 


HIS PRISON BARS. 


CHAPTER XIV. 

THE JOLLY MEMBER. 

It was weeks before John overstepped the limit of his 
resolve, and tasted wine. Custom demanded it, then. 
His Excellency the Governor held a reception, and John 
was among the many invited guests. Of course he donned 
his best clothes and attended, feeling very small, insig- 
nificant, and out of place amid so much glare and glitter 
and style, until the Governor came and talked two min- 
utes to him as courteously as to a senator. Then the 
mercury of his enjoyment and self-satisfaction rose to 
blood heat, and when one of the jolly members came and 
said, “ Bremm, let ’s go and eat something,” he went at 
once. 

What a revelation that supper-table was to him ! 

“Fine spread the Governor sets out,” said the jolly 
member. “ Beats anything I Ve seen this winter. His 
Excellency does honor to our stomachs, and that suits 
me to a T.” 

“ Who says tea here ? ” flippantly inquired young Ashe, 
standing near. “ Can’t you name a better fluid ” Ashe 
was chief clerk in one of the State Departments, and 
knew the difference in liquids. 

“ Can’t a man talk the alphabet to you without setting 
you to thinking of something to drink ? ” was the re- 
sponse. 

“Well, I ’ve been having an awful dry time,” said Ashe. 


. THE JOLLY MEMBER. • 6 1 

“ Been talking to Senator Groom’s daughter for a half- 
hour. Could n’t get rid of her, you know. Turned her 
over to Marsh’s tender mercies at last, and came out here 
to get something before it was all drank up.” 

A servant came along as he said this. 

“ Can you get me some champagne, Peter ? ” Ashe in- 
quired. 

They were standing at one end of the large dining- 
room, and while the servant went for glasses they talked 
on. 

“ The Governor knows good wine, does he ? ” asked 
the jolly member, “ the gentleman from Sychar.” 

“ He does that. His eats are good, but his drinks beat 
’em hollow.” 

“ Then I should think a man would have to eat again, 
after drinking,” said John. “Would n’t have a fellow go 
away hollow, would you ? ” 

“ Eat as many times as you choose to,” said the jolly 
member. “ ‘ Let us eat, drink, and be merry,’ says the 
Scripture. Have some oysters, Bremm ? ” 

Peter came back with the champagne, and offered a 
glass to each. Bremm had said “ No ” to invitations else- 
where tendered him ; he wanted to say it now ; wanted 
to, and did not want to. He hesitated. 

“ He who hesitates is lost,” said Ashe, in a declamatory 
tone. “ Take it, Bremm.” 

Yes, try the Governor’s champagne. Follow the ad- 
vice of Timothy, and take a little wine for the stomach’s 
ache,” said the jolly member. 

“That ’s a painful way of putting it, Mr. Limm,” John 
said, taking the glass. 

“ The best way to put it is to put it down,” said Ashe, 
and he suited the action to the word. So, too, did the 
others. 


62 


HIS PRISON BARS. 


“ That ’ll do,” said the gentleman from Sychar. “Very 
fair liquid. Try some more, Bremm ; these glasses don’t 
hold a thimbleful — not a great while, that is.” 

They ate and drank and made merry, between them- 
selves, for a half-hour. John was witty when the wine had 
warmed him a little, and could crack his joke with either, 
and relished it. The jolly member grew more jolly with 
each glass of the liquor, and Ashe might have been bois- 
terous if it had been anywhere else than in the Executive 
Mansion. 

Having eaten to their satisfaction, and drunken all that 
Ashe and Limm dared to, — more than John desired, — 
the three took leave. 

Out on the street they talked of the people and made 
merrier than before. 

“ Come to my room, boys,” said the jolly member. 
“ It ’s early yet. We ’ll have a smoke, and a night-cap.” 

John held back. 

“Oh come along, Bremm! You don’t want to be in 
bed for an hour, anyhow. A smoke will do you good, 
after eating. Just got a box of fine cigars to-day. Want 
you to try ’em.” 

He went, and for two hours they had the bad atmos- 
phere of smoke and impure stories, — stories impure as 
the air they breathed. When at last John broke away, 
and sought his quarters on Gull Street, his brain was 
foggy and his sensibilities dulled. All he sensed was that 
he had been a guest of the Governor's, had had a jolly 
time, and was in a hurry to find his bed. If he stumbled 
a little while climbing to his attic room, it was owing to 
the lateness of the hour and the darkness of the way, 
and not to anything taken inwardly. So, at least, he 
would have argued. 

Next day he rose late, and it was lucky he wanted no 


THE JOLLY MEMBER. 


63 

breakfast, since the breakfast hour had long passed. His 
head ached and his hand trembled. Thinking over his 
evening’s enjoyment, he was inclined to question “ if it 
paid.” The gentleman from Sychar met him on the floor 
of the House and exchanged greetings. 

“ That champagne of the Governor’s must have been a 
little mixed,” said he. “ Gave me a bad feeling right 
here,” pointing to his forehead. “ How ’s your head ? ” 

“ A little mixed, too, I think,” John answered, and 
passed on to his reporter’s seat to write a gossipy letter 
about his Excellency’s party. 

But he found writing impossible. The words ran to- 
gether, and there seemed no sense in it at all. After an 
hour of wasted effort he postponed the duty, and went 
away. 


64 


HIS PRISON BARS. 


CHAPTER XV. 

GERALDINE FAYTHE. 

I SHOULD like to follow John Bremm’s life, in every-day 
detail, through that first winter in Baylan, but to do this 
would lengthen my story unduly. Nor would it much 
interest the general reader. I, knowing Baylan like a 
book, or — to use a comparison more in keeping — like 
a newspaper, take a sort of pleasure in reading anything 
which relates to the place and its people ; but to the great 
public Baylan is just — Baylan j the capital ; a political 
centre, from which political influences radiate ; a market- 
place for manhood, where they buy and sell and get gain. 

And to write of John’s every-day life in the full would 
be but to describe, with more or less minuteness, the 
daily habits and customs of law-makers, — since John was 
regularly associated with these, — lit up at intervals with 
an outside experience. For John could hardly go through 
four months of being and doing, even when mainly nar- 
rowed down to legislative work, without forming general 
acquaintances ; and it was a gopd fortune, I shall always 
believe, that he did form some of these. He was thus 
taken out, for a little, of the whirlpool of scheming ambi- 
tions, and breathed at times a purer atmosphere. 

I would not have you think that because John Bremm 
once overstepped his resolution, and practiced intemper- 
ance, he thereafter was uniformly intemperate. It cost 
him an effort to forswear intoxicants so much as he did, 


GERALDINE FAYTHE. 65 

but he mainly did forswear them. At receptions he took 
his glass of wine with the rest, but when invited to drink 
by every-day associates under every-day circumstances he 
commonly refused. His excuses were varied. He never 
said squarely, I am afraid to indulge much ; my will is 
too weak;” though this would have been simple truth. 
On the contrary he argued, as nearly all young men 
argue, “ I can drink, or I can let it alone.” And as yet 
it did not require a very strong will to “ let it alone.” 
Self was still the master. If self should one day become 
the slave, what then ? He saw no such possibility. Do 
men ever see it ? 

Among John’s outside acquaintances were the Lati- 
mers. His acquaintance with them came through Geral- 
dine Faythe, but how he came to know Geraldine. I never 
learned. He always said she reminded him of Hope ; 
and that was really all he would say about her, in those 
days. I had known her some time — known her to be 
one of God’s best and noblest ; and yet I never dreamed 
what rare nobleness was hidden ’neath her rather gay 
manner. She was a woman to win men, and she did win 
them. She was more than beautiful. Indeed I have 
wondered, hearing friends go into enthusiastic praises of 
her beauty, if she were beautiful at all, strictly so, I 
mean. Perhaps I was better able to judge than others. 
She was only my friend. I could look at her dispassion 
ately. But the most of men saw her through the glamour 
of love. 

She was a contradiction. Some people called her a 
flirt ; but they were young men who knew her only slightly, 
or had been unsuccessful in their wooing and were dis- 
posed to be cynical, or young ladies who envied her pop- 
ularity and did not care to be generous. She had a cer- 
tain lightness of manner that might easily be taken for 
5 


66 


HIS PRISON BARS. 


coquettishness. She liked to please — not to excite ad- 
miration, but just for the mere giving of pleasure. She 
was not selfish, and when people sought her companion- 
ship^ she gave it at its best. 

And the real secret of her fascination lay in the fact 
that she never studied to fascinate. Coquettishness is an 
art, and succeeds, I know, in proportion as it appears 
artless ; but there can be, there sometimes is, attractive- 
ness perfectly natural which equals the highest art, and 
this was Geraldine Faythe’s gift. She did not abuse it. 
If some suffered on account thereof, the fault was not in 
her intention, but in her low estimate of self. That she 
had any special power of winning hearts did not seem 
known to her. 

She was older than John, yet so young in heart and 
feeling that she never thought of it, nor did he. He had 
fallen into a man’s place in the world, and he acted a 
man’s part. She rarely gave, or seemed to give, a thought 
to the fact that as yet he was but a well-grown boy, and 
must ripen up in character and life. Perhaps he was 
older for his years than are some ; it may have been, it 
must have been, that he matured, in some considerable 
measure, earlier than the average of youth. 

The Latimers lived over on Murray Hill, and were a 
genial, hospitable family, not given to display, but thor- 
oughly pleasant. Miss Faythe was intimate with the 
Latimer girls. There were two of them — as there were 
two of the boys — Abner and Hull. Hull was the older, 
and several years John’s senior, but between him and 
John the intimacy was close. 

Hull Latimer, save in the Latimers’ own circle, was a 
recluse. For society he cared nothing. With wit and ^ 
conversational talent enough to shine in any gathering, 
he rarely accepted social invitations, and was known to 


GERALDINE FAYTHE. 


67 

the many only as a quiet, retired young man of pro- 
nounced literary tastes. He had accumulated a fine 
library, and amid the companionship of his books was 
content. 

It was this bond of bookish inclination which drew 
Hull and John together. John had natural literary taste 
perhaps equal to his friend’s, but not so cultured. His 
reading had been more desultory than Hull’s, and he 
realized it. He liked Hull’s society, because in it he 
seemed somehow brought into nearer contact with liter- 
ary genius and accomplishments than ever he had been 
before. 

And, too, he liked the atmosphere in the Latimer home. 
His was a nature keenly social, and here sociability 
abounded. The house was full of young, hearty life. 
Even Hull’s quiet studiousness sparkled out here into 
jest and repartee. There was never any lack of laughter 
and song. A clever set of young people made this place 
their central point, and here planned and plotted for the 
common pleasure. They took John into their coterie 
without questioning, because he was a friend of the Lati- 
mers, and the association helped him, as I have said. 

John wrote often to Hope of his new friends — that is, 
of the Latimers, in particular, and the little social circle 
in general, which revolved around them. Of Geraldine 
Faythe he made rare mention. He could not have told 
why. Was it some instinct which forbade ? Did he real- 
ize, as by an intuition, that this girl was to be more to 
him than any other, and did all that he and Hope had 
been seem somehow changed ? I do not know. He met 
Miss Faythe frequently. To occasional gatherings which 
the Latimer coterie had, he was oftenest her escort. He 
spent an occasional evening with her, at her own home. 
He did not realize it, but she strengthened his good reso- 


68 


HIS PRISON BARS. 


lutions, and gave him a better sense of life. Through all 
her merry sociality there flowed, for such as claimed 
friendly regard, an earnestness beautiful as sincere. 

John was her friend. Was it likely, to her thinking, he 
could ever be anything more ? 


A AT EVENING AT STONE'S. 


69 


CHAPTER XVI. 

AN EVENING AT STONE’S. 

Winter held on late that season, as indeed it often 
does in Baylan. When the last of March came there 
was still good sleighing, and the Latimer “ set ” voted to 
close their season’s pleasuring with a ride out to 
“ Stone’s,” and a supper there. “ Stone’s ” is an hour’s 
drive from Baylan, and was then, as perhaps it is yet, a 
favorite resort for pleasure parties. It is an unpretend* 
ing public-house, but in those days held high repute for 
the excellence of its suppers. 

The party numbered hardly twenty. They were to go 
in a large sleigh together, and rendezvoused at the Lati- 
mers’ about dark. John escorted Miss Fay the, who was 
in one of her most bewitching moods, and as gleeful over 
the occasion’s promise of enjoyment as a child. All, 
indeed, were in high spirits. The night was beautiful — 
clear and cold as any of the year — and the sleighing per- 
fect. Every member of the little circle was on hand, and 
there seemed no drawback to a capital time. Even the 
hermit-like Hull Latimer had been persuaded to go, and 
before starting he and John kept all the rest in laughter 
with their sparkles of wit. 

They were off, at last, good-natured old Mr. Latimer 
good-humoredly scolding them for attempting a pleasure 
ride with the mercury at zero, and declaring that they 
could get as much enjoyment, at less expense, by opening 


HIS PRISON BARS. 


70 

all the doors and sitting in the hall with their feet in a tub 
of cold water. They were off, at last, well wrapped and 
snugly seated, careless of the cold. 

Will any of the number ever forget that night ? The 
air was motionless. A full moon, shining down upon the 
fields of snow, made it almost as light as day. The “ four- 
in-hand ” — their pick from Helm’s whole livery — were 
as full of life as the party whom they drew. They fairly 
flew along the old turnpike road. 

“ Nothing in the classics quite equal to this, is there, 
Hull ? ” inquired Sturdevant, Belle Latimer’s escort. 

“ I call this classic,” said Hull. “ It ’s as cold as any 
classic beauty I ever read of.” 

“ For shame, Hull ! ” Belle declared. “ What do you 
know about classic beauties — or any other ? You never 
lived in Greece.” 

“ No ; but I ’ve been to the oil regions,’^ he answered. 

“ Why did n’t you stay there, if it was so classic ? ” 
John queried. 

“ I should, if I ’d been content to ‘ let well enough 
alone,’ ” was his reply. 

“ What an outrageous joke ! ” said ’Gus Latimer. 
“ Hull, your wit needs warming. You ’ll set me all of a 
shiver if you perpetrate any more cold-blooded remarks.” 

“ Can any one murder language to-night, and not do it 
in cold blood ? ” John asked. “ I begin to feel like say- 
ing frigid things myself.” 

And so they ran on. Anything passed for wit. There 
really were some bright flashes of repartee, but warmed- 
over witticisms are always a little stale. 

Before any one realized it, the hour’s lively ride was 
over, and with a smart crack of his whip the driver reined 
up at “ Stone’s.” It was yet early evening, and they had 
plenty of time for merry-making. Supper was not served 


EVENING AT STONE'S. 7 1 

until eleven o’clock, and until then the little company for- 
got that there was an outside' world — forgot that there 
could be sorrow and pain anywhere in it ; they lived 
only in the present, and were content. 

Hull Latimer’s passion, next to books, was music, and 
he really sang well. To-night he was importuned to sing 
repeatedly, and as often complied. It was a question 
which he rendered best, the pathetic or the humorous, or 
which his listeners liked most to hear. There was one 
sober bit of sentiment, I remember, that he always gave 
with rare effect. It was new then — not the sort of bal- 
lad to be sung by everybody, and whistled by every boy 
on the street, but such an one as would charm the ear of 
taste and move the soul of sympathy. Simple, sad, ten- 
der, Hull sang it not alone with his voice, but with his 
heart. Geraldine Fay the asked for it now. 

“ Give us ‘ Marion Moore,’ Hull,” she said. It was 
her favorite. 

As he sang she stood leaning against the instrument, 
looking neither at him nor at any one else, but apparently 
forgetful of all about, her beautiful eyes suffused with 
tender light. He seldom put as much feeling into the 
song as he did now, although never lacking in expressive- 
ness. One could easily have fancied him breathing out 
an experience. 

“ Dear wert thou, Marion, Marion Moore ! 

Dear as the soul o’er thy memory sobbing ; 

Dear as the heart o’er thy memory throbbing ; 

Sorrow my life of its roses is robbing, 

Wasted is all the bright beauty of yore ! ” 

The little -company knew how to listen. How still 
they were as he sang on ! 

“ Gone art thou, Marion, Marion Moore ! 

Gone like the breeze o’er the billow that bloweth ; 

Gone like the rill to the ocean that floweth ; 


72 


HIS PRISON BARS. 


Gone as the day from the gray mountain goeth. 

Darkness behind thee, but glory before ! 

Through the stillness Geraldine could hear her heart 
beat. She saw nothing but a valley in the twilight, a 
mountain range shutting it in, the gray peaks tipped with 
color — darkness, here \ beyond, the glory of heaven ! 

“ I will remember thee, Marion Moore ! 

I will remember, alas ! to regret thee ; 

I will remember when others forget thee ; 

Deep in my breast will the hour that I met thee 
Linger and burn till life’s fever is o’er ! ” 

Could one put so much tenderness into tone for effect’s 
sake ? The singer was rapt in his song. Geraldine 
Faythe’s eyes filled with tears. Over the last stanza Hull 
lingered, breathing it out softly, lovingly, as though it 
were indeed a benediction. 

“ Peace to thee, Marion, Marion Moore ! 

Peace which the queens of the earth cannot borrow ; 

Peace from a kingdom that crowned thee with sorrow ; 

Oh to be happy with thee, on the morrow. 

Who would not flee from this desolate shore ! ” 

There was silence for a moment as the last note died 
away. Who should break the spell ? 

“ Hull Latimer ! If you don’t stop you will make me 
cry,” broke out impulsive Kate Belden, finally. “ And 
that ’ll spoil my complexion, and I ’ll never forgive you ! ” 

The spell was broken, and very rudely, too. Geraldine 
was glad that just then the call to supper came. 

“ Thanks, Hull,” said she, as he passed by her. “ It 
was beautiful ! ” And he knew the words meant all they 
could. 

When supper was over, they resumed their merry-mak- 
ing, and continued it until a late hour. In fact, time 
flew so swiftly by that all were surprised when Abner 
Latimer called out, — 


AJV EVENING AT STONE'S. 


73 


“ Two o’clock, fellows ! Home ’s the word.” 

Presently he came in from the bar-room, where he had 
been to settle the bill and order their sleigh, and said, — 

“ Fourteen degrees below zero, girls ! Coldest night 
we Ve had since New Year’s. Wrap up good.”- 

Outside, the air cut like a knife. 

“ Lucky there ’s no wind,” said one. “ If it were blus- 
tering we ’d perish.” 

“ Who ’s afraid of cold ? ” inquired another. “ Give 
your horses the road, driver, and let ’em fly.” 

The driver took him at his word. Helm’s best team 
never made better time than now. They were naturally 
mettlesome, now the bitter cold made them doubly so. 

The party said little, as they dashed along. Buried 
deep in robes and mufflers, they scarcely looked out. It 
was a splendid night, but no longer a night for laughter 
and song. 

By and by a painful suspicion flitted across Abner 
Latimer’s mind. They were going at a furious rate. 
From the moment of leaving “ Stone’s ” they had only 
slackened pace once. Now they were flying on faster 
than ever. Either the driver was drunk, or — 

He unwound his long muffler and looked ahead. The 
driver sat bolt upright, swaying neither to the right nor 
to the left, but firmly braced, and drawing powerfully on 
the reins. 

It was clear to Abner, now. The horses were running 
away ! 

Luckily he sat next the driver’s seat, and that was wide 
enough for two. He quietly put aside the robe, and 
threw himself up beside the driver. 

“ Can you keep them in the road ? ” he asked, speak- 
ing low, so the others should not hear. 

“ Yes, for a mile yet. Them blamed leaders have 


74 


HIS PRISON BARS. 


taken the bits between their teeth, and there an’t no 
stopping ’em. We ’re all right till we git to the turn, 
better ’n a mile ahead. If they keep it up till then ” — 
There was no need to say more. The young man 
knew very well what must follow. The road bent abruptly 
to the right, at the point alluded to, and olf at the left 
was a steep precipice, dropping straight down thirty or 
forty feet. He thought of this and shuddered. They 
were nearing it fast ! In two minutes more they would 
reach it — and then ? 


A WILD RIDE. 


75 


CHAPTER XVII. 

A WILD RIDE. 

Have you ever known two minutes seem an age ? To 
Abner Latimer they were like an eternity of torment. 
They were going on to swift destruction, and what could 
he do ? If he shouted out their danger, what would it 
avail ? To leave the sleigh now would be madness : 
they must almost as surely meet death in this way as by 
plunging off the precipice ahead. Then there was a 
hope that still the infuriated team would tire of their race 
before reaching the turn, and thus all serious danger be 
avoided. 

The others had not yet taken alarm, and that was fort- 
unate. They sat wrapped in their furs and mufflers, 
unconscious of the horror now so near. The driver 
flinched not, but held on as for life. 

Faster and faster they flew. Had the wind suddenly 
risen ? So cold and keen was the air that it stung deep 
into the flesh. Abner’s face felt burned and sore. A 
little more, and it would be frozen to the bone. He 
thought of this, as they flew j he even thought of wrap- 
ping up carefully again ; so do these little things of small 
moment force themselves upon the mind amid great peril. 

But he must see, and what mattered a chilling, with 
probable death so close at hand ? Grimly and anxiously 
he waited. 

One minute had passed. Half the distance was gone 


HIS PRISON BARS. 


76 

over. Sixty seconds more, and what of them all, then ? 
Abner could see where the zigzag rail fence on his right 
turned short off, and went zigzagging away at a right an- 
gle. It was only a little distance ahead now — only a 
little ! And the mad horses never slackened pace at all ! 

“Pretty reckless driving, I call it! ” said John to Miss 
Faythe, as they bounded over a rough place. And he 
too loosed his wrappings, and looked ahead. Seeing 
Abner by the driver’s side he wondered for an instant 
what it meant, but felt reassured. 

On, on they went ! It was a wild, wild ride. Yet only 
Abner Latimer and the driver realized its wildness and 
desperation, until all was over. 

On and on 1 Not eighty rods away was the fatal turn. 
Already Abner could see the whole party hurled off the 
precipice, — men and women, and horses and sleigh, an 
awful, sickening mass. To sit grim and quiet, making no 
endeavor, was not longer possible. 

“ Are your reins stout ones ? ” he asked. 

“ Never ’d ’a’ held till now if they had n’t been,” was the 
driver’s reply. 

“ Then give me a hold with you, and we ’ll saw the brutes 
down ! ” 

He seized one set, and bracing himself with all his 
might he pulled. The driver did likewise. Neither spoke, 
but with set lips and determined face each put forth his 
power to the utmost. 

Did the horses slacken pace a bit ? Was the endeavor 
quite hopeless ? So it seemed at first. But grown des-i 
perate, and with every muscle at a tension, these two men 
did not yield. 

The maddened brutes did. The hard bits cut their 
mouths, and chafed them. Harder and harder the two 
strong men pulled, not steadily, but with quick, sharp jerks 


A WILD HIDE. 


77 

that began to be effectual. Their speed lessened, and 
Abner had hope. Only ten rods ahead was the turn, but 
they were saved ! 

Perhaps. 

“ Turn ’em into the fence ! ” said the driver, not so 
hopeful as yet, and as he said it, he caught the reins with 
Abner, dropping his own loose, and together they pulled 
upon the “ near ” leader and wheel-horse. 

In an instant they were floundering in the untrodden 
snow, and a general scream told that all the party had 
been roused to a consciousness of trouble. Another im 
stant and the sleigh was overturned, and amid a chorus 
of screams and cries one cry rang out with such pain and 
agony in it that it chilled the hearts of all. 


78 


ms PRISON BARS. 


CHAPTER XVIIL 

A LOOK IN AT LISCOMB. 

At Liscomb the winter wore slowly away. It was not 
unlike other winters, save, perhaps, to a few. Mrs. Bremm 
found it lonely, despite the fact that Albert Burley re- 
mained with her, and did what well he could to make up 
for John’s absence. Of course she missed her boy ; of 
course she believed, and would not give over believing, 
that in going away he thought nothing of her comfort, and 
did her a great wrong. Of course she recited her tribu- 
lations to every willing ear, and magnified them many 
fold. Complaint had become chronic with her ; she really 
found a certain happiness in thinking and talking about 
her unhappy lot. 

John did not go home as often as he had promised that 
he would. The journey took considerable time ; not so 
much because of distance, as for lack of close traveling 
connection ; and it cost some money. But neither of 
these considerations, as a matter of fact, operated most 
strongly in John’s mind. 

To begin with — there was his mother.^ Glad as she 
was to see him, when he did return, she could not long 
refrain from her usual manner of speech. There were 
little every-day trials — who does not have them ? — and 
in her sight they were mammoth troubles, which could not 
be overlooked. She was alone in the world, and had only 
him to look to for companionship and counsel and bur- 


A LOOK IN AT LISCOMB. 


79 

then-bearing ; he was off enjoying himself while she slaved 
there ; he need n’t think that sort of life could last always. 
Thus she reasoned, unreasoningly ; and his day or two at 
home failed not to be vexatious and unsatisfying. 

To end with — there was Hope. Once he would have 
met her, no matter how often, with real pleasure. It 
would have been a pleasure undisguised. In the same 
manner she would have met him. Now there was a 
change. If he could have told in what the change con- 
sisted, he might have met it carelessly, or boldly. Any 
analysis of their relations was yet, however, beyond him. 
He only realized, in the vaguest possible way, that be- 
tween them something strange had come ; that while he 
thought of her often, with a sort of longing tenderness, 
he shrank from the old intimate personal relationship ; 
that while he could write her free, brotherly letters, he 
could not talk with her face to face as freely and pleas- 
antly as in days gone by. 

As for Hope herself, she lived in a new land. She had 
come, as sooner or later every girl or woman does come, 
into her Paradise. In it she studied, and wrote, and 
dreamed. You who are middle-aged, whose happiness 
is personified in half-grown forms about you, that name 
you, as none others can, “mother,” — you will know what 
life for this girl was. You have not forgotten — no 
woman ever can forget — the days of a delight sweeter 
than words can express, such a delight as can only be 
remembered, and can never fitly be described. 

When John spent an occasional day at home — and far 
enough apart these occasional days were — she went to 
and fro in a fever of unrest. When he came for the brief 
hour he gave the Hensells at such times, she greeted him 
eagerly, hesitatingly, checking her gladness ere it made a 
hearty welcome, rather puzzling him, and making more 
defined the line of division between them. 


8o 


HIS PRISON BARS. 


Meanwhile young Burley had formed a pleasant habit 
of dropping into the Hensell home, of an evening. He 
admired Hope for her scholarship and her talent ; he 
liked her for the quiet sensibleness she manifested. And 
she was sufficiently exuberant of nature to tone up his 
own rather grave studiousness, and exhilarate him. 

Burley liked John ; how could he help it .? They had 
grown up from earliest boyhood together. The one was 
retiring, had little confidence, was ever doubtful of him- 
self ; the other had grown out of reserve into boldness, 
was confident and hopeful. They were, in a way, two 
opposites, with a mutual attraction. Their correspond- 
ence was intimate, and their friendship close. 

Perhaps Hope enjoyed Burley’s society more because 
he was John’s friend, than for any other reason. He was 
rather too quiet and reserved, she sometimes thought. 
He was not like John, overflowing with hilarity and sport- 
iveness. He had not John’s brilliancy. A good student 
he was, to be sure, but he won repute as a scholar mainly 
through plodding. He rarely sparkled, but he did often i 
warm to a genial glow. He had not much talent, but he 3 
did have ambition and application, and in the long run , 
these win. ; 

One night Burley went down to Mr. Hensell’s to re- 
turn a book Hope had loaned him, and though “ Cicero ’’ ' 
claimed attention at his room, he tarried for a little chat. 

“ I had a letter from John last week,” said he, as he 
picked up the latest “ Telescope,” and chanced on that . 
journal’s last letter from the capital. 

“ He thinks the Legislature will adjourn inside of 
three 'weeks ; and I hope it may.” 

“ We shall all be glad to have him back ; ” this with 
an effort to speak unconcernedly, that he did not ob- ^ 


A LOOK IN AT LISCOMB. 


8 


“ It ’s been a profitable winter for him, I think,” he 
went on. “ He has improved greatly in writing, don’t 
you think so ? He can do better than set type, after 
this. John has a knack with his pen that I rather envy. 
Some of his letters to me are very comical. I ought to 
have had another last night, but none came. His mother 
expected one three days ago, but failed to get it, and is 
quite worried. Ah ! here she is now.” 

Mrs. Bremm entered as he spoke, not pausing to rap 
or ring. She was evidently excited, and out of breath. 
Hope started up with a sudden dread. 

“ Why, Mrs. Bremm ! you look all tired out. Has 
anything frightened you ? ” 

“No, — yes; I don’t know,” the woman responded. 
“ I’ve just got word from John, an’ I come over to see 
what your folks thought. I knew something was the 
matter. When yesterday come and no letter, I said to 
myself, ‘John ’s sick or something,’ and I expected it, and 
I an’t disappointed at all. His Uncle Israel sent the 
word,” and she held out a letter bearing the Legislative 
postmark, and having on its corner the stamp of the 

Lower House. 

6 


82 


HIS PRISON BARS. 


\ 


CHAPTER XIX. ; 

•i 

THE END OF A RIDE. j 

It was fortunate that the snow was deep, and the j 
horses quite exhausted with their already long run. \ 
Otherwise they must surely have got beyond any control, j 
and dashed off with the overturned sleigh, leaving its || 
recent occupants in a plight pitiable indeed. As it was, -n 
their condition was bad enough. They were covered ] 
with snow, and were sorely chilled. The ladies were 
frightened and nervous, and altogether apprehensive. 

All the little party, save Abner Latimer, flung so sud- 
denly from tolerable comfort into a situation most uncom- 
fortable, were fairly appalled. 

Abner, cooler and more self-possessed than the other 
gentlemen, either because he had not been wholly sur- 
prised, or because naturally so, turned his attention to 
helping the driver and securing the plunging team. 

“ Right up the sleigh there, some of you fellows ! ” he 
called out as he sprang for the leaders’ heads. “ Hull ! 
you help the girls, and somebody help me here ! ” 

“ Who ’s hurt ? ” he asked, an instant later, between 
his attempts to ' pacify the rearing beasts. He had heard 
the cry of pain, and feared the worst. 

Miss Fay the answered, as Hull Latimer assisted her 
to a standing position from the reclining one where she 
had been thrown, — 

“ It ’s Mr. Bremm. He caught me as we were going 


THE END OF A RIDE. 


83 

over, and I fell upon him. He ’s almost killed, I ’m 
afraid. Can’t you help him up ? ” and she spoke with a 
tender appeal in her voice which even Abner Latimer 
remarked, amid his still vigorous endeavors, and remem- 
bered. 

Two or three sprang to the prostrate form. 

“ Where are you hurt, Bremm ? ” asked Hull Latimer, 
putting an arm around the youth, to steady him, as they 
: lifted him erect. 

For answer there was only a painful moan. 

“ He ’s fainted,” said one ; “ rub some snow in his 
face.” 

Hull was about to do as suggested, when John spoke, 
faintly, so only Hull heard : — 

“No — don’t. It my leg — broke, I guess.” 

The rest had crowded around, partly forgetful of their 
own discomfort in sympathy for the greater sufferer. 

“ Can you ride ? ” asked Abner, who had left the team 
to their driver and another. 

“ I ’ll try,” was the faint response. 

They lifted the sleigh back into the beaten track, 

I hastily replaced the articles so unceremoniously thrown 
i out, and prepared to resume a ride no longer one of 
pleasure, but of misgiving and regret. 

Abner and Hull tenderly lifted John into his seat, every 
motion torturing him with pain till he moaned inces- 
santly. 

“ Is n’t there some house near where we could take 
him ? ” inquired Miss Faythe. “ He never can stand it 
to ride home to-night. The pain will kill him.” 

“ There is n’t a house of any kind within half a mile,” 
said Abner, “ and if there was, we should have to go to 
the city for a surgeon, and he ’d suffer more with the 
waiting than he will with the ride. Don’t you think so, 
Bremm ? ” 


84 


HIS FHJSON BASS. 


“Yes. It’s easier now. I can stand it, somehow. 
Don’t worry about me ; I ’ll get along,” and he shut his 
teeth close and hard, and let them wrap him carefully, 
only flinching a little when they touched his injured 
limb. 

Miss Faythe sat by him, on one side, as before : she 
had taken her seat as if unthinking. 

“ If you feel faint, lean your head on my shoulder,” 
she said, when they had started. 

Miss Faythe had nothing of the prude about her. 

Hull Latimer sat on John’s right, and still partially held 
him erect. In the moment’s excitement he had forgotten 
how bitterly cold was the night, and how carefully they 
had all guarded against chilling, only just before. 
Abner’s face was badly frosted, bi;t he had given it no 
thought since the overturn. 

There was little said, as they rode on at a pace not 
much less rapid than that of a few moments previous. 

“ You went faster ’n I wanted you to, you brutes, a 
while ago,” the driver declared ; “ now you shall go fast- 
er ’n you want to ! ” and he lashed them sharply. 

“ No danger of another run-away,” said Abner to his 
nearest neighbor. “These horses have had enough of 
that for once.” 

But fast as they went, it was the longest ride John 
Bremm ever had known. In after years he knew one 
longer still, but it was under far different circumstances. 

Miss Faythe tried to talk, but it was hard work. She 
suffered almost as much as did John, so keenly sympa- 
thetic was she. The others were silent for a time. By 
and by Hull spoke : 

“ Keep up courage, Bremm ! We’re almost home.” 

Then, for the first, it flashed upon John that he had 
no home to go to, and again he grew faint and weak. He 


THE END OF A RIDE. 


85 

surely could not be carried up to his little room and left 
there. He must have care and comforts which a Gull 
Street boarding-house did not afford. There was the 
City Hospital, on Condor Street, near Gull ; should he 
go there ? He was trying to think it out, growing weaker 
and fainter the while, when Abner Latimer solved the 
question for him. 

“ Go straight to our house, the nearest way,” he said 
to the driver ; “ you can take the rest home from there.” 

John did not interpose. Indeed, by this time he was 
almost past sensibility. It was such a long, long way ! 

“Almost there now!” said Miss Faythe, at last. Her 
voice trembled, despite the effort to speak cheeringly ; 
was it only with the cold ? 

“ Sturdevant I you jump out and ring up Dr. Vander- 
weyde as we pass, and bring him after us as quick as you 
can.” 

Sturdevant did as Abner directed, glad to assist. 

They reached the Latimers’ home, finally. Just before 
reaching there, however, John’s head dropped over on 
Miss Faythe’s shoulder, and she said to Hull, — 

“ He has fainted. We must get him out as soon as 
possible.” 

They carried him in at once — the two Latimer boys — 
a dead weight in their arms. Miss Faythe followed with 
the girls. She had expected to spend the night with 
them, and remembered, and was glad, that her people 
would not feel anxious. Others were about to follow, also, 
but Gus Latimer stopped them, in her frank, off-hand 
manner which all liked. 

“ No, don’t come now. Let the sleigh take you all 
home. We can take care of Mr. Bremm, and you had 
better take care of yourselves.” 

They acquiesced, and taking seats again were driven 
rapidly off, as Gus called after them shrilly, — 


86 


HIS PRISON BARS. 


“ Come around in the morning, any of you ! ” 

Sturdevant came running up, half out of breath. 

“ It ’s morning now, and I am here ! ’’ he panted. 
‘‘ And I ’m going to stay, unless you imperatively order 
me off.” 

“ No j come in. You may be needed. Hull is no bet- 
ter than a baby, where any one is hurt. Did you find 
the doctor ? ” 

“ Yes j he ’ll be here in two minutes. He was up, fort- 
unately, — just returned from a patient as I rang.” 

They had taken John to Abner’s room, and Miss 
Faythe was bathing his head with camphor when the 
others entered. His wrappings were partially removed, 
and he was pale to very whiteness. As yet he had not 
spoken. A moment later he opened his eyes, and smiled 
languidly into the young lady’s face. 

“ Are you suffering much, now "i ” she asked, her fingers 
lingering upon his forehead with a half-caress that none 
but the recipient noticed. 

Not much,” faintly. “ But I am so weak.” 

Dr. Vanderweyde came in, Baylan’s most skillful sur- 
geon, though yet a young man — a man with woman’s 
tenderness, despite his trade. He was an old friend of 
Speaker Bremm, and knew the youth. 

“ What ! is it you, John ? I ’d no idea who needed my 
help. Is it a fracture ? ” 

He passed his hand professionally over the patient, 
stopping quickly as he saw the sudden pain a touch of 
his leg gave. 

“ Only a broken limb,” said he cheerfully. “ Ladies, 
will you leave us alone a few minutes ? ” 

Half an hour later he entered the parlor where they 
nervously waited. 

“ It ’s all right now. You can go back if you choose. 


THE END OF A RIDE. 


87 

But my advice is that you go to bed and rest. I have 
given John an opiate, and he ’s asleep already. Abner 
will watch with him until relieved. You look worn, all of 
you — go to bed! ” 

“ You ’ll have to give us an opiate to make us sleep,” 
said Gus nervously. 

And he did.- 


88 


HIS PRISON BARS. 


CHAPTER XX. 

GETTING WELL. 

When John awoke next morning, Hull Latimer sat 
near by, talking with one of his sisters and Miss Faythe, 
who stood by the bed, looking down upon him commiser- 
atingly. For an instant he was puzzled to know what it 
all meant. How came he here } What were these doing, 
about him ? 

The mystery cleared soon. One of his limbs felt stiff 
and queer. He tried to move it, and a twinge of pain 
warned him to desist. Then like a flash came perfect 
recollection. They had had an evening’s amusement ; 
it had ended seriously ; he was injured and an invalid. 

His eyes filled with tears, as full realization came. 
He tried to speak, but choked, and was silent. ’ 

“ Our ride ended badly,” said Miss Faythe, feeling that i 
some expression must be made. “ The enjoyment be- ^ 
longed to all of us, but you have to suffer all the pain. / 
You must let us do what we can for you till you get ; 
well.” I 

“ I shall be a great trouble,” he answered. “ I can’t ' 
stir, I suppose, for several days.” ^ 

“ Not for several weeks,” interrupted Hull ; “ but don’t I 
think about the trouble. That is nothing at all. You ; 
must be as contented as you can.” 

“We ’ll try and not let you get lonely,” said Gus Lati- 
mer, assuming a lightness of manner she did not feel, for 


GETTING WELL, 


89 

this was the first serious accident she had ever been inti- 
mately knowing to. “We’ll be so good company you 
won’t want to get well ! ” 

He smiled a little at this. Rather sadly, however. 

“ But who will do my work ? ” And as he asked this 
he thought of Israel Bremm, and wondered what that 
gentleman would say. 

“ Oh, Hull can write your letters for print, and the rest 
will be got along with in some way,” responded Miss 
Fay the. 

So they endeavored to cheer him up, and make the 
rather unpleasant prospect look as bright as possible. 

After he had taken a little breakfast, he thought again 
of his friends outside, and Hull volunteered to inform 
Speaker Bremm of what had occurred. 

As soon as the afternoon session was over Mr. Bremm 
came. It was a bad situation, he allowed, but what 
could n’t be cured must be endured. 

“ I ’ll have to appoint some one else to take your place 
until the session ends,” he said. “ You won’t get around 
again this two months. When you do, we ’ll see what 
can be done for you. But what about your mother? 
She ’ll have to know.” 

“ Yes. I ’m too weak, now, to write. Can you find 
time to pen a few words ? ” 

“ I ’m driven every minute, but of course I will do that 
much. Shall I say that you need her here ? ” 

“ No ; I ’m very well cared for, and need nothing but 
patience.” 

Is it not sad indeed when a sick boy, away from home, 
shrinks from even the thought of his mother’s coming ? 

Speaker Bremm was driven incessantly, the session 
being so near its end ; and though he returned to the 
Capitol with intent to write his sister-in-law at once, the 


HIS PRISON BARS. 


90 

letter was not written till next day. Then, through some 
oversight, it was not mailed promptly j some unusual 
hindrance en route delayed it yet longer; and this was 
why Mrs. Bremm had become anxious and excited. 

It was a very brief letter, and a very unsatisfactory 
one. When she read it through, she felt the necessity of 
conferring with some one immediately, and so she went 
to Mr. Hensell’s, as we have seen. 

“ Israel might have told more than that, I should 
think,” she declared, when Hope had read the few lines. 

She did not see that the young girl was trembling with 
excitement, even as was she ; and fortunately her remark 
attracted Burley’s attention so that he did not observe it. 

“ ‘John has met with an accident, and is laid up with 
a broken limb ! ’ That ’s all he says, except that he has 
good care, and I need n’t be anxious. As if any mother 
would n’t be anxious, with her boy off so, as John is ! 
How can I help it ? ” and the good woman began to 
weep, hysterically. 

“ Really, Mrs. Bremm, I don’t see much occasion for 
anxiety,” Burley said soothingly. “ John is among friends, 
the letter tells us, and is well cared for. People rarely 
die of broken bones. He ’ll be home again in proper 
shape pretty soon.” 

“ But what is the care of friends, when the boy wants 
his mother, I ’d like to know ? I shall go to Baylan to- 
morrow. Mebbe he is in some dreadful hospital or other, 
and his uncle did n’t want to say so. I ’m going right 
home now and get ready to start ! ” and she pulled her 
shawl nervously around her, and turned away. 


A COMPLAINING WOMAN. 


91 


CHAPTER XXI. 

A COMPLAINING WOMAN. 

Mrs. Bremm did not go to Baylan. When she returned 
home, with purpose to go, she began vigorous prepara- 
tions for departure, and kept them up until late in the 
night. Thinking her boy might lack food for a dainty 
appetite, she made ail sorts of tempting cookery, thus 
busying herself until the wee sma’ hours. So late did 
she labor, in fact, and so unconsciously exhausted was 
she on settling to sleep at last, that next morning she 
slept far beyond her usual time of waking, and long be- 
fore she could dress for the journey, the stage had gone. 

There was no one to complain to but Burley, and she 
made his breakfast very uncomfortable. Why did n’t he 
wake her in season.? she asked. He knew she meant 
to go. If he had cared as much for John’s welfare as he 
should care, he would want the boy properly seen to. 
And so on. To all of which the young man answered as 
he might, or answered nothing. 

Growing more calm, presently, Mrs. Bremm bethought 
her of many things as yet undone, and reasoning that one 
day could not make much difference, she began to feel 
glad of the delay. So hour after hour she busied herself 
with further preparation. 

Albert Burley had said, as they sat at breakfast, “I 
believe I ’d give up going, yet, Mrs. Bremm ; ” and she 
had responded warmly, “ I shan’t take any such advice as 


HIS PRISON BARS. 


92 

that. He ’s all I Ve got left, and do you suppose I M 
leave him there to suffer ? ” 

As she worked, and thought of her boy, she went, step 
by step, back into the past. Again he was a little fellow, 
playing at her feet, nestling on her knees. His cun- 
ning arms were wound about her neck ; his velvet cheek 
touched hers. Hers was not velvet any longer — she 
came back to the present enough to think of this ; there 
were wrinkles upon it, and it had grown hard under cares 
and falling tears. And now — back in the present still — 
her little boy was lost. Could full-grown John be the 
same little toddler she held so often and so tenderly to 
her heart long ago ? 

Down under the woman’s unloving habit of complaint 
there was yet a well of affection deep and pure. It was 
rare that she drew from it the clear water of domestic 
love, wherewith to bless her household and herself ; yet 
who shall say that these depths of affection did not some- 
how save her to a better life, poor even as it was, than 
else she might have known ? 

So all the day through she labored and loved as in her 
boy’s babyhood, with a sort of clinging love which held 
on to its object and would not let it go. From picturing 
John sick, and in distress, and poorly cared for, she had 
gone back to that pleasanter picture of memory, where he 
was always a little fellow, with his silken hair, his pretty 
ways, his merry laugh, and where he would never grow 
old. 

Burley did not return to dinner, and therefore she was 
quite undisturbed. Not until almost night-fall did she 
realize that a storm prevailed, one of those late winter, 
storms with which Liscomb is occasionally visited, when 
a snow blockade sets in, that lasts, maybe, a week. When 
she did realize it, the storm had grown furious. Snow 


A COMPLAINING WOMAN. 


93 

had fallen from early morning with unremitting steadh 
ness. Since mid-afternoon the wind had risen, and now 
it blew a gale. The air was blinding. She could not see 
into the street. The blasts howled about terrifically, and 
seemed to her a foreboding of pain. 

During the next hour, until Burley came to supper, she 
was nervous and impatient. When he came, she must 
talk. 

“ We shall have a wild night of it,” said he. “ The 
storm is increasing.” 

“Yes, of course. It will be just my luck to have all 
the roads blocked so I can’t go. I ought to have went 
this morning, and I knew it.” 

“ But you would have had a severe journey, Mrs. Bremm. 
We have seen few more unpleasant days this season.” 

“ I know. But what do I care for the storm, with John 
in trouble } I ’d go to-night, bad as it is, if I could.” 

She went to the window again and looked out. 

“ Has the stage come through yet ” she asked. 

“No. I waited for it a while, thinking there might be 
a letter. I ’ll go down once more, before the evening is 
over, and see. They ’ll get through to-night, I think, but 
it will be late. As for to-morrow ” — he also went to the 
window and peered out into the semi-darkness — “ it looks 
doubtful.” 

She could have cried for very vexation. But she did 
not. She only talked on, complainingly, as though Bur- 
ley were to blame for the situation, until he had eaten his 
meal, and gone away to his room. 

Two hours later he sallied out again, for the post-office, 
and returned soon, almost breathless with breasting the 
storm, bearing a letter. 

“ It’s from John,” he said, as he produced it. 

She tore it open, eagerly. It had been written, as the 


94 


ms PRISON BARS. 


date showed, three or four days after the message sent by 
Speaker Bremm, but had nearly overtaken that upon the 
way. There was not much of it ; only this : — 

B AYL AS f Marck — , 185 - 

Dear Mother, — Uncle Israel has told you of my mishap. 
I hope you are not anxious about me. The doctor says it 
is not a bad fracture, and will mend perfectly. I am staying 
here with my friends, the Latimers, and am in excellent hands. 
They do all they can to make me comfortable, and if I were 
used to sitting quiet indoors, day after day, it would be very 
pleasant, barring some pain for a time. They brought me 
here on the night I was hurt, and will not hear to my leaving 
until able to ride. Of course you will not think of coming to 
see me, as it really is not worth while, so far as I am con- 
cerned, and besides, you would only add to the burthen on 
my friends. When my broken bone will admit, I shall come 
home. Give my regards to Hope, and tell ’Bert to write me 
all the news. Yours affectionately, John Bremm. 

Burley read the letter through when Mrs. Bremm had 
finished its perusal. 

“ Well, you see he is all right,” said he, “ as I told 
you.” 

“ Israel might have told where he was, and in whose 
hands,” she answered. “ See how much work ’t would 
have saved me. I ’m clear beat out with getting ready, 
and all of no use.” 

And Burley, fearing further complaint, said a hasty 
good night, and left her to herself. 


LOOKING AHEAD. 


95 


CHAPTER XXII. 

LOOKING AHEAD. 

The days wore slowly away, more slowly to John 
Bremm than to any of his friends. He could not well 
help being restless and uneasy, much as was done for 
his amusement. He had come to feel the necessity, al- 
most, of such mental excitement as the Capitol afforded. 
Besides, he wanted to see the Legislature in its last hours, 
with the fever of impatience and recklessness upon it. 
And all he could do was to sit or lie there, day after day, 
reading or read to, or talked to by members of the house- 
hold or others who came in. 

Yet it was a rest for him, and it gave him time to think. 
What his thoughts were did not always transpire, but 
they were very often pleasant thoughts. He had lived, 
mainly, a correct life. There was not much for him to 
look back upon with special regret. Those lapses from 
strict temperance seemed far off. It was as though an- 
other suffered them, and not himself. He even felt a 
sort of pity, now, for the weakness that could make such 
errors possible. Here, withdrawn from evil influences, 
he was very strong. Out in the world again, in some to- 
morrow full of heated, unhealthy social conditions, how 
would it be then > 

What his life was to be, in point of work, seemed a 
riddle. He had gone beyond the printer’s case ; must he 


HIS PRISON BARS. 


96 

now return to it ? Vague dreams of a once impossible 
future were recalled. Was it still impossible Might 
not the old dreams come true ? He had won a little 
literary success ; might he not somehow win more ? 

The old, old longing after fame and fortune — did ever 
men live and die without it } Did ever men live and die 
contented with its fulfillment ? It is the heritage of the 
race. It is the one birthright which man never can sell 
for pottage. Men have forever kept it, and forever will 
keep it. 

Geraldine Faythe called often at the Latimers’, and 
usually looked in to cheer up their invalid. Before many 
days John came to look forward to these calls with eager- 
ness. What this girl was to him he had not yet ques- 
tioned. What he was to her would be secondary to that. 
He enjoyed her company; that he knew. She did him 
good like a medicine. ‘ She was uniformly cheerful, and 
her very laugh was music. She was the embodiment of 
sympathy, and more earnest than any one he had ever 
known. 

John delighted to watch her as she talked. When 
most interested it seemed as if he could see her soul. 
Often her face glowed as with a light of transfiguration. 
Her full, beautiful eyes expressed more than her words. 

Miss Faythe was not one to do unwomanly things ; 
neither, as I have said, was she prudish. That she should 
not spend an occasional hour in ministering to the young 
man who was injured while trying to shield her, never 
entered her mind. Since early girlhood she had been 
a frequent visitor at the house where he was ; she saw 
no reason why a regular custom should be changed. In- 
deed, to her thinking there was now a duty which called 
her there ; and while to save any gossip she might have 
foregone a pleasure, she would do nothing to avoid a 
duty. 


LOOKING AHEAD. 


97 

John had not forgotten Hope. He remembered her 
often. But he did not write to her as he had done. He 
could easily make excuses to himself for negligence or 
delay, and the same excuses were made in the few brief 
letters to his mother. He was weak, and suffered consid- 
erable pain, and there were so many callers it was impos- 
sible to write ; and so on. 

By and by the session ended, and Speaker Bremm 
came. He had sent messages of inquiry two or three 
times since his former call, but had been too busy for 
more. 

“ I am going away to-morrow,” he said, “ and wanted 
to see you before leaving. You will be able to travel 
soon, will you not ? ” 

“ The doctor thinks I ought not to, for some days yet.” 

“ Well, take your time. It would kill me to be shut up 
so long, but you are young, and have n’t so much to do.” 

“ No, my business is not pressing,” and the young man 
smiled, a little sadly, perhaps. 

“Of course your time has gone on until now. You 
will draw pay up to the close of the session, the same as 
though you had not been away.” 

“ I had not expected that.” 

“ You have no plans for the future ? ” 

“ None.” 

“ I supposed not. Would you like to remain in Baylan 
a year or two ” 

“ Nothing would please me better.” 

“ Then you may consider it all arranged. There is a 
place in one of the Departments which you can have. I 
have seen the Governor about it, and will see him again 
to-night. The appointment will be made to-morrow, 
and you will draw pay from time appointed.” 

“ I am much obliged to you, I am sure,” and his voice 
7 


HIS PRISON BARS. 


98 

trembled with feeling. “ You are very kind to think 
about me so. If I can ever compensate in any way ” — 

“ Never mind about that, John. You just take care of 
yourself, and get square on your pegs, and the rest will 
all come out right.” 

“ Shall I stay on here in Baylan, then, without going 
home ? ” 

“As you choose. I should say not, though. You will 
need a few days of change. Better go home as soon as 
you can, and begin work stronger and heartier.” 

“ It will not be hard work ? ” 

“ Why, bless you, boy ! Have you been here so long, 
and don’t know that clerks are worked almost to death } ” 
And the Speaker laughed sarcastically. 

“ Don’t you know how many of them annually break 
down under it, and are compelled to retire to private 
life ? ” he continued. “ You will be forced to labor from 
nine o’clock in the morning until five o’clock at night — 
if there ’s anything to do.” 

John laughed at the banter. 

“ Well, I ’ll do the best I can,” he said. 

They parted : Israel Bremm, to go among his con- 
stituents and lay pipe for reelection, or promotion to the 
Senatorship — he was not yet determined which, but 
favored the latter; John, to speculate upon this new out- 
look, and to await, with what patience he might, the day 
when he could once more walk about, strong in body and 
sound of limb. 


POLITICAL PLACE. 


99 


CHAPTER XXIII. 

POLITICAL PLACE. 

At last the injured limb had mended sufficiently to 
permit, and John returned to Liscomb. He could only 
walk with crutches, but to get about in any way was by 
this time a pleasure never realized before ; and while he 
chafed under such partial result, he was yet measurably 
glad. 

His Liscomb friends rather lionized him, the first few 
days. Burley made him heartily welcome, and Mrs. 
Bremm said not a complaining word for hours after his 
return. “The boys,” as John somewhat vaguely called 
his old associates of the printing office and the street, 
met him with the bluff cordiality which young America is 
given to, and at the first opportunity asked him what he 
would take. 

Lying in his invalid room at the Latimers’ it had 
seemed to John an easy thing thenceforward wholly to 
forswear the cup. He had not actually resolved that he 
would, but he had reasoned that to do so might be best. 
And he had determined not to indulge again under ordi- 
nary circumstances. 

Now the circumstances were rather more than ordinary. 
These his friends were glad to see him back ; he must 
allow them to manifest their pleasure and regard; he 
would drink to good-fellowship. The same idle, worse 
than idle, social plea has ruined many another than John 


lOO 


ms PRISON BARS. 


Bremm — will go on ruining such, I suppose, until the 
end. Did it ruin him.? Of course not, then; perhaps 
never. We shall see. 

He stayed at home nearly a month. All this time he 
mingled more or less with the free-hearted of his acquaint- 
ance. He had nothing to do but socialize : he had come 
for rest and recuperation. Home was not much pleas- 
anter than before, after a little. He kept away from it 
all that he well could. “The Telescope” office was his 
lounging-place, and a very satisfactory one it was to him, 
but he must not sit there all the while. Every morning 
found him poring over Mr. Hensell’s exchanges, but 
afternoons and evenings he spent mostly elsewhere. If 
the elsewhere had been always some saloon, it would 
have been far worse than it was ; if always Mr. Hensell’s 
parlor, it would have been' far better. 

He did spend many afternoons and evenings with Hope. 
In these days she seemed more like the little Hope of 
previous years, so frank and hearty was she. He had 
been unfortunate, and her quick sympathies went out to 
him freely. Invalidism had made him more tender, and 
perhaps she recognized in his manner something not 
quite a fact. They got on admirably together. He 
talked of Baylan and his experiences there, of his 
friends and their kindnesses to him. Of the Latimers he 
spoke unreservedly, as he had written : but of Miss 
Fay the he made little mention, or did not mention her 
at all. 

They read to each other very much. John had some- 
how a gift at reading, and it was a real treat to listen to 
him. It did not always matter so much what he read. 
The charm was largely in his voice, which had more 
music in it than any other male voice I ever heard. I 
used to think he might make a rare singer, if only he 


POLITICAL PLACE. 


lOI 


would culture himself, but strange to say, he never would. 
How he ever came to read or recite with so much grace 
and finish puzzled his friends to tell. He had never been 
trained in an elocutionary way ; he had studied little to 
that special end. He was one of the few who seem in- 
tuitively to catch the proper emphasis and tone, and 
could express written sentiment as only the few ever can. 

Hope, too, read well. This was less strange, since she 
was in training for elocutionary work as a teacher, and 
had already become quite proficient for one so young. 
Her voice was developing great strength and flexibility, 
and promised uncommonly. She had her dreams, after 
the manner of intellectual girls who expect soon to grad- 
uate. With John she talked of some of these. To be a 
public reader was not in those days so common an ambi- 
tion as it is now. The average ambitious young lady 
chose some other “sphere.” But it had somehow dawned 
upon Hope’s mind that beyond a private teaching experi- 
ence there might be greater things in store, and while 
she talked lightly of her dreams, they wore an air of sub- 
stantiality to her, after all. 

It satisfied Hope, that John came so often to see them. 
Her feelings concerning him, in the few months past, 
had been contradictory and annoying. Now that he 
seemed once more to care for her, to be happy in her 
society, a glad sense of rest came into her heart. Of the 
future there was no question. To her belief, for Hope 
Hensell had nothing of the coquette in her nature, he 
could be thus content with her companionship only be- 
cause of regard like her own. And without thought of 
trifling, he really manifested a similar regard, and felt 
new thrills of pleasure daily at seeing how completely 
her manifestation answered back. 

By and by he was able to resume work, and his play- 


102 


HIS PRISON BARS. 


spell must end. “The Telescope” announced that 
“Mr. John Bremm, ‘The Telescope’s’ brilliant young 
correspondent at Baylan,” who had been spending some 
time in town to recuperate his health, was “ about to return 
to the capital, having received an honorable appointment 
in the State service ; ” and of course it added some praiseful 
words that were gratifying to the young man’s pride. He 
would continue his contributions to the paper, it was 
stated, and would write most entertainingly of Baylan 
affairs. 

Mrs. Bremm wanted to sell their home, and go with 
John ; but this proposition he opposed. Rents were too 
high in Baylan ; there would be no gain in the plan, but 
a loss. Burley would stay with her another year, having 
been made a tutor in the academy, and it was better for 
her to remain where she was. Thus he reasoned to her. 
To himself he argued that he could make her no happier 
with him than she would be otherwise ; and though this 
may not be just our idea of filial duty, he knew Mrs. 
Bremm a great deal better than we could have known 
her, and perhaps we should concede something to his 
superior knowledge. 


COBLES CAVE. 


103 


CHAPTER XXIV. 
coble’s cave. 

Back again in Baylan, John found life there in summer 
quite delightful. It seemed very quiet at the Capitol, in 
comparison with the busy bustle of legislation, but this 
change was rather agreeable than otherwise. The roomy 
old building was well-nigh deserted. At intervals a dele- 
gation came to wait upon his Excellency, or an individual 
called to pay his respects and ask some favor. But the 
crowd was gone. Until another winter the rotunda would 
be empty of occupants : the offices of State would not be 
overrun with visitors \ the business of a great Common- 
wealth would go on without sign of friction or haste. 

The young man’s place was in a department close by 
the Executive, and amid pleasant surroundings. Its sev- 
eral rooms were more beautifully fitted up than any par- 
lors he had been familiar with before coming to Baylan ; 
and from each the outlook was fine. From the room 
wherein his desk stood, the view was especially attractive, 
taking in the handsome Capitol Park, the public build- 
ings on the left beyond, and the wide range of Province 
Street, sloping riverward. It was surely a good spot in 
which to play at work, and John thanked fortune that 
without the seeking he had gained so much. 

He secured another boarding-place, also on Gull Street, 
but was happy in his choice, and found it very like a 
home. The good old Quakeress who kept it forgot her 


104 


HIS PRISON BARS. 


“thees” and “thous” occasionally, but was a good 
Quaker, nevertheless, and her quaintness of character, 
her uniform repose, charmed him from the first. Things 
rarely went wrong with her. If the housekeeper grew 
peevish and fretful, or flared up in a heat of passion, the 
old lady just let her fret or flame it out. As this house- 
keeper had temper the quickest, such scenes were not 
uncommon, yet the hoifse was well kept, and the table 
well supplied. 

The Latimers welcomed John’s return. In his long 
tarry with them their mutual liking had increased, and he 
seemed quite like one of the family. Their home was 
his one place of resort, socially, for many months. Save 
occasional calls on Miss Fay the, he went about little. 
Through his Excellency’s favor he was permitted to draw 
books from the State Library, and these occupied much of 
his leisure time. He wrote more than heretofore, too, and 
in other styles than epistolary ; tried essays, sketches, and 
rhyme. As his efforts found editorial recognition, and 
blossomed into print, he was stimulated to further 
attempting, and labored with increased will. 

The Latimer association, the friendship of Geraldine 
Faythe, his love for books — these saved him from much 
that would have proved a curse. These kept him from 
intimate outside socializing with the dissolute. At rare 
intervals, only, did he overstep the strictest total absti- 
nence. Had these intervals never occurred, had his 
abstaining been absolute, and because of a fixed resolu- 
tion, instead of intermittent and largely the result of con- 
ditions, he would have been safe. He thought himself 
safe, as it was. Were his prison bars slowly forging, 
meanwhile ? Would there be need, by and by, of a way 
of escape } 

A long, happy summer was near its end. The Latimers 


COBLE'S CAVE. I05 

had planned an excursion to Coble’s Cave ; it had been 
talked of in the little circle for weeks. The day was 
fixed, the party made up. As on other occasions, John 
would escort Miss Faythe. 

Coble’s Cave is forty miles from Baylan, on the Quo- 
nosque Railroad. Our party took the early morning train, 
and reached there about nine o’clock. Leaving the cars 
where neither platform nor depot offered accommodation, 
they saw, off at their right, twenty rods up the hill-side, a 
long, rambling hotel, and Hull Latimer called out, — 

“ Where on earth does Mr. Coble, keep his cave, I 
wonder ? ” 

“ Change your preposition, Hull,” said John. “ Nobody 
ever saw a cave on earth, did there ? ” 

“ Don’t imply that they are running this cave business 
into the ground,” was Hull’s answer. “ Wait till we say 
good-by to daylight.” 

They walked up to the Cave House, which fronts the 
narrow valley, and covers the cave’s entrance. Being 
duly booked for the subterranean trip, they engaged a 
guide, and set about personal preparations. 

“ Good-by, ladies,” said Sturdevant, as the fair portion 
of the party left the sitting-room with a young woman, to 
don their several costumes. Sturdevant had been here 
before, and knew what a metamorphosis awaited them. 
“ Good-by ! we shall not see you again till night.” 

“ What do you mean ? ” asked Geraldine Faythe. “We 
are surely not going in without you ? ” 

He laughed. 

“ I ’ll be there ; so will all of us — but the ladies. I 
never saw any one go in who looked the least bit like a 
lady.” 

His talk mystified others than Miss Faythe, but the 
mystery solved itself soon enough. 


Io6 HIS PRISON BARS. 

The gentlemen were not long in donning old blouses, 
and making ready for a start. They gathered in the sit- 
ting-room, a motley group, laughing at each other s dress, 
and wondering if the girls would recognize each through 
such disguise. In an adjoining apartment the girls were 
indulging a wonder similar, and were making merry over 
toilets never dreamed of in any previous masquerad- 
ing. When they appeared, the wonder and surprise were 
mutual. 

Each young lady had donned pants, snugly tied down 
at the ankle ; a blouse of red flannel, with a belt of black 
at the waist ; and a turban-like head covering of white, as 
a crown for the whole. It was really a picturesque uni- 
form, but the transformation surpassed anything in the 
gentlemen’s disguising. 

“Shades of Bloomer!” ejaculated John Bremm; “which 
is which ? ” 

“They are all whitches,” said Hull. “Where are the 
broomsticks } ” 

“ Witches come from below,” said Sturdevant ; “ we 
are going there. But did n’t I say we should not see any 
ladies till our return ? Where are they now ? ” 

“ If you libel them that way,” was Hull’s comment, 
“ they ’ll seek redress.” 

“We are all here,” said Gus Latimer, when they had 
ceased laughing over the situation. “ Can’t you pick us 
out?” 

“ Can a fellow have his pick ? ” some one inquired. 
“If so. I’ll take” — 

“ No, no 1 ” screamed several in response. 

So they went on, joking and laughing until the guide 
came, when they paired off and marched away, going 
through the cellar, and taking torches as they passed. 

The change of temperature was very marked as they 
passed into the cave, and sent a shiver over all. 


COBLE’S CAVE. 


107 


“ Rather a cool reception we have,” said Hull Latimer. 

“Lucky we brought our lamps along,” said John, “so 
we can see the darkness.” 

In the total night which reigned, their torches flared 
out weirdly indeed. They made a picturesque procession, 
as they carefully picked their way along, and John pur- 
posely kept in the rear, with Miss Faythe, that they might 
drop a little behind the rest occasionally, to observe the 
effect. It was very striking. 

There is not much of beauty or interest in the cave for 
a mile or more. Our party passed through various halls, 
of varied lengths, breadths, and heights, bearing sundry 
pretentious names, but destitute of special subterranean 
attraction. In one they could hear the roar of a distant 
w'ater-fall, which the guide said could not be discovered ; 
and just beyond came to the Bottomless Pit — all caves 
have such a thing, I believe — and gathered round its 
uninviting depth. Their lamps only shot feeble rays a 
few feet downward, and the guide’s statement that the pit 
had been sounded many hundreds of feet without striking 
bottom, was not hard to believe. • 

“ What a yawning chasm ! ” some one remarked, melo- 
dramatically. 

“ I ’ll tell you what makes it yawn so,” was Hull’s re- 
joinder : “ being bored.” 

“ Spare your bad puns, Hull,” said his sister Gus. 

“ It ’s the good ones he ’s sparing of,” said Sturdevant, 
and this sally provoked general laughter. 

Musical Hall they found one of the most extensive, and 
the pleasantest, of all they had explored. A small stream 
flows through it, and alongside, for a fourth of a mile at 
least, there is a smooth pathway, while overhead the reg- 
ular, solid ceiling throws back sound in a surprising man- 
ner. 


io8 


HIS PRISON BARS. 


It was here that something very startling occurred. 
They were filing along, glad to find smooth footing again, 
after so much of roughness and discomfort, and were hop- 
ing that the rest of the journey might prove as pleasant 
as this portion. Suddenly a moment’s silence was broken 
by an explosion that seemed to have rent all the ground 
beneath them, and shattered all the rock above. There 
was a wild chorus of screams from the ladies, in which 
some of the gentlemen joined, and the deafening roar and 
the piercing cries went resounding up and down the long 
gallery, rolling back into the distance, and returning in 
diminished power, for a long moment of suspense, in which 
each wondered what awful happening it was. 


AAT UNDER-GROUND EXPERIENCE. 


109 


CHAPTER XXV. 

AN UNDER-GROUND EXPERIENCE. 

When our party realized how little there was to excite 
apprehension, they laughed heartily over their fright. No 
explosion had taken place. It was only a petty device of 
the guide to arouse consternation and surprise. Passing 
ahead of all, he had unnoticed raised one end of a heavy 
plank, and dropped it back upon the unyielding sand. 
The hall’s reverberating qualities had magnified the re- 
port an hundred fold. 

After testing the echoes in many ways, they went on to 
the lake, — a narrow reach of water perhaps eighty rods 
in length. It is shut in by solid walls of rock, and above 
it is the rocky ceiling, seventy feet overhead. Only half 
the party could find room in the crazy old boat which 
was at hand, and while they paddled the lake’s length, 
the rest waited, in admiration of the picture they made. 
So strangely clear was the water that the torches reflected 
many feet below its surface, and the boat appeared as if 
moving through the air. 

Hull and John were of the second boat-load, and nu- 
merous were the strokes of repartee which they indulged 
in. Here for the first time they saw stalactites, and as 
many of these boasted names high-sounding if not appro- 
priate, there was sufficient opportunity for sportive re- 
mark. Disembarking, they found the main passage 
closed by a monster stalagmite, and were obliged to 


no 


HIS PRISON BARS 


climb up one side, creep through a passage narrow and 
unpleasant, and descend by a dangerous path to the pas- 
sage beyond. One curious stalagmite soon drew their 
attention. It was uncommonly clear, and of course it 
had a name befitting some fancied resemblance. 

“ That is Lot’s wife, turned to a pillar of salt,” said the 
guide. 

*‘What did Lot do when his wife was turned into 
salt ? ” inquired Hull Latimer. 

“ Why, he got a fresh one, certainly,” was Lottie Ray’s 
answer. 

The Giant’s Library is not far beyond, where one im- 
mense flat rock stands for the table, and near by is a pile 
of smaller ones, regarded as the books. 

“I see they have hea\7^ works in under-ground libraries, 
as well as above,” said Hull, as they passed on. “ Who 
knows but some prehistoric Tupper was buried here ? ” 

The Rocky Mountains rose ruggedly before them, ere 
they had gone much farther, not a fit comparison with 
the original article, but sufficiently hard to climb; and 
when all reached the Valley of Jehoshaphat, they were 
giddy and tired. Beyond this, in the Winding Way, they 
sat down in the Silent Chamber to rest. The Way is nar- 
row and tortuous, a mere cleft in the rock, just wide 
enough for one person to stand in, and varying in height 
from ten feet to a hundred. Going a few rods along its 
labyrinthine crookedness, you come to a small room 
which is the chamber of silence; and here our party 
paused. 

“ This,” said the guide, “ is probably the stillest and 
the darkest place on earth.” 

“ In it, you mean, don’t you ? ” John asked. 

“Yes, in it; for we are now over four miles, by actual 
measurement, from the entrance, and about 1500 feet 


AAT UNDER-GROUND EXPERIENCE. HI 

below the surface of the mountain over us. We will put 
out our torches and sit a moment in darkness.” 

The torches were extinguished, and it was as though 
sun, moon or stars never shone. 

“ Let each take a long breath,” the guide suggested, . 
“ and then let no one move, if you want to realize dark- 
ness and silence both. Now ! ” 

A hearty inspiration followed. 

“ Hold on there ! ” sung out a voice. “ Some one took 
part of my breath. Let ’s start fair.” 

They laughed at such absurd interruption, but renewed 
the attempt. 

Had they lived so long and never known stillness be- 
fore ? So it seemed. There was no sound of dripping 
water, no stir of breeze-touched leaf, no pulsation of air. 
The silence was absolute, and even painful. 

“ Ho ! Lucifer ! a match ! ” shouted Abner Latimer, 
presently. 

The guide produced one, and its feeble flicker was wel- 
come indeed. 

“ Blessed are the match-makers ! ” ejaculated Hull, and 
the long breath he drew was all his own. “ I think even 
an old flame would be worth while, here.” 

“ Hull never forgets the old flame,” said Sturdevant, 
whereat they laughed. 

“ ‘ ’T is better to have loved and lost 
Than never to have loved at all/ ” 

quoted Hull, in reply. 

“Oh come, now!” was Gus Latimer’s impatient re- 
minder. “ Don’t go to raking in the ashes. Flame is 
suggestive.” 

“ So are ashes suggestive,” said Hull, with a little sar- 
casm in his tone — “ suggestive of lye.” 


II2 


HIS PRISON BARS. 


“ Was the old flame untruthful, then,” queried Sturde- 
vant. “ Did she talk soft soap to you, Hull ? ” 

It was a fancy of Miss Faythe’s that Hull had known 
some unpleasant experience with her kind, and she feared 
there was more meaning under some of his badinage 
than they fairly understood. She was glad that the guide 
interrupted. 

“ Beyond us is the Fat Man’s Misery and the Ro- 
tunda,” he announced. “ Will you go any further ? ” 

“A fat man in misery! ” said John. “I never saw a 
fat man who was not jolly. Fun and flesh go together 
always, I thought. Show us the fat man, and let us see 
where the misery comes in.” 

“ He comes into the misery,” the guide answered, “ if 
he an’t too fat.” 

They found the place, not far beyond. The passage 
dipped down, at an abrupt angle, and narrowed almost as 
abruptly to a small hole in the rock, through which one 
could go only by crawling. 

“ If there ’s any fat man here, I propose he try the 
passage for the amusement of his friends,” said John. 
“ Sturdevant ? ” 

“ Let Hull try it,” was Sturdevant’s answer. “ He 
might chant a over the lost love when he gets in.” 

“ I don’t lean that way,” Hull rejoined. 

They found the passage so full of water that no one 
could go through, and began retracing their steps. On 
the Rocky Mountains the guide stopped. 

“ Go ahead twenty or thirty rods without me,” he said, 
“ and wait there.” 

They filed along down the rough descent and paused, 
as directed. By the guide’s torch they could just discern 
him perched on the rocky height. An instant later he had 
fired a quantity of red light, and the illumination was 


AN UNDER-GROUND EXPERIENCE. II3 

wildly, weirdly beautiful. A red, unearthly glow shot far 
up towards the ceiling above, and threw its ray along the 
entire passage to where they stood. Beyond the burning 
altar, as it seemed, the guide’s figure stood out in bold 
relief, a presence spectral indeed. When the red light 
had burned dim, the guide discharged some Roman can- 
dles, and their white fire-balls, glancing hither and thither 
through the dark spaces, seemed like meteors shooting 
through an unknown sky. 

“Isn’t it magnificent!” exclaimed Geraldine Faythe. 

Her expression found numerous echoes, for none of 
the party had ever beheld anything equal to it in singular 
beauty of effect. 

Midway of the Lake another illumination was had, 
more beautiful still, and more striking. Every stalactite 
was thrown out in clear relief by the strong light, the 
clear, unrippled water acting as a reflector ; and the party 
looked on in bewildered amazement until the scene was 
over. 

The way was surprisingly long, returning, which had 
been surprisingly short at first, and all were fatigued when 
a^ain they saw daylight. A strange, sickening sensation 
beset each, as they ascended the stairway and filed into 
the sitting-room they had left six hours before. The sud- 
den change from fifty degrees of temperature to ninety 
degrees, was like stepping from a cellar into an oven. 

Miss Faythe was walking near to John as they passed 
into the sitting-room. Realizing the unpleasant sensa- 
tions himself, he looked at her. All color had gone out 
of her face. She looked at him, and attempted to speak, 
but reeled, and would have fallen, but that he caught her 
in his arms. 

“She has fainted,” he said, to those who gathered 
round. 


8 


HIS PRISON BARS. 


II4 

Instantly all was commotion, and the rest forgot their 
discomfort in attempts to render aid. 

Geraldine rallied quickly, and tried to sit up. 

“ The heat was suffocating,” she said. 

As she still felt weak and faint, she begged them to let 
her lie quiet on the couch, where they had placed her, 
while they all went and changed their dress. Assured 
that she would not need their help, they left here there. 
Only John stayed. 

“ I will wait till the girls return,” he said, nor would 
he go. 

“ You are all tired out,” he declared, pityingly. 

She smiled at his evident care. 

“ I will be rested soon. I did not realize any weari- 
ness until now.” 

She closed her eyes languidly, as she spoke. 

“ It was a long, exhausting tramp,” he said, as if now 
first fully comprehending the fact. “ I only wonder you 
could have made it at all. You are not sorry, though ? ” 

“ Oh, no. It was grand. I shall always remember it, 
and thank you.” 

She opened those rare eyes of hers, and looked at him 
with the thanks she hardly syllabled eloquent in her face. 

He took her hand, and the pressure he gave it was 
faintly returned. 

“To give you any pleasure is the dearest pleasure I 
know,” he said, a quick thrill possessing him. 

Her pale cheeks flushed, and she shut her eyes again 
to hide the light his words called there. 

He would have said more, but just then Abner Latimer 
came in. 

“ How ’s your appetite for dinner ? ” he asked of Ger- j 
aldine. “It’s all ready for us, and I am hungry as a < 
bear.” . i 


AN UNDER-GROUND EXPERIENCE. II5 

So do the grosser things of life crowd in upon senti- 
ment. 

“ I will go and arrange for it,” she said, looking down 
at her unusual costume, while her cheeks flushed hotly. 
“ I am all right now.” 

John helped her to the ladies’ dressing-room, and him- 
self went to make ready. 


ii6 


HIS PRISON BARS. 


CHAPTER XXVI. 

A GOOD DAY. 

The dinner was a plain, substantial affair, but every 
one of our little party had the relish of appetite. Never 
dinner tasted better than did this. 

“ I hope you fainted from hunger. Miss Faythe,” said 
Hull, “ so that you may enjoy eating. I never knew food 
to taste so well but once before ; that was atop of Mount 
Washington.” 

“ I hardly know why I fainted,” deprecatingly. “ I am 
not commonly troubled with faintness.” 

“ It was the most natural thing in the world,” Hull 
answered. “ This change from cold to heat was a shock 
to us all. I would have fainted myself — if I ’d had any 
one to catch me.” 

Hull liked to quiz. 

“ No one will ever think you much of a catch,” said 
his sister Gus. 

The girls laughed. 

“ I think a little of that cave every day would do us 
good,” said Sturdevant. “ It ’s an excellent tonic.” 

“Wouldn’t it do as well to go and walk an hour or two 
in some cellar? ” inquired John. 

“ No, you can’t accelerate recovery that way,” put in 
Hull. “Invalids find no lasting cure until put under 
ground.” 

“ Your doct’rin’ is bad if that is what it leads to,” said 

f 


A GOOD DAV. 1 17 

Sanborn, sarcastically. Sanborn was studying medicine, 
and resented any insinuations against his profession. 

“My doctrine is as good as your doct’rin’ ever will 
be,” Hull parried. 

“ He has been successful in one important case, ah 
ready,” Belle Latimer said, laughing. “ Disease of the 
heart, was it not, doctor ? ” 

He flushed perceptibly. Agnes Currey, who sat next 
him, blushed in turn. 

“ There is only one recourse for a young lady with that 
trouble,” Hull declared. “ She must hunt up a country 
curate.” 

It was pretty well known that Miss Currey had a friend, 
who was quite attentive, who presided over a rural parish. 
They were all amused at Hull’s raillery, — pointed, but 
so delicate that none could object. 

“You must understand that there are two kinds of 
heart disease,” said Mr. Sanborn, “organic and sympa- 
thetic.” 

“ One kills people, and the other don’t,” Hull inter- 
rupted. “ It ’s the sympathetic everybody has. No one 
dies with it.” 

“ I ’ve seen people who were tolerably sickish, though,” 
remarked Abner Latimer. 

“ They had just been married, — or were just going to 
be, poor things, I suppose,” Hull said. “It has that 
effect sometimes. I saw a young couple last week, on 
the Rhine River Railroad, who were troubled that way, 
and I have to laugh yet to think about it. We were ap- 
proaching the Long Tunnel, and the young man knew it. 
His arm had been tenderly dropping down around her, for 
some minutes. He had not observed that a brakeman had 
lighted the lamps, but I saw that he kept close watch of 
the landmarks. As we shot into the Tunnel he stole his 


Ii8 


HIS PRISON BARS. 


opportunity, and a kiss. Then he happened to note that 
it was n’t so very dark around, after all, and then he saw 
the lights. The look on his face, when he comprehended 
that we had all been watching him, was equal to any the 
Fat Man ever put on in his misery.” 

Hull laughed again over the recollection, and the others 
could not help joining in. 

“ Speaking oi railway kisses,” said John, when they had 
grown quiet, “ reminds me that I have a droll little story 
to tell. When I was returning to Baylan this summer, in 
the same car with me was a mother and her little girl. 
The mother was a very beautiful woman, and the child 
her perfect image in miniature. I never saw so bright 
and pretty a thing. Every one admired and petted her, 
one middle-aged man, in particular, who sat near, noticed 
and played with her very much. By and by he arose to 
leave. ‘Are you going now? ’the child asked. ‘Yes, 
my little lady,’ said he, ‘won’t you let me kiss you 
good-by ? ’ She started to put up her lips, when a happy 
thought suggested itself, and drawing back she asked 
eagerly, ‘ Would n’t you rather kiss mamma ? ’ ” 

“He looked as if he would,” John went on, when they 
had ceased laughing, “ but yet he seemed rather confused 
about it.” 

“ The cars are due in fifteen minutes,” Abner Latimer 
announced. “ Had n’t we better get the train, and take 
the rest of our railway kisses as we go along ? ” 

“ If you can get them, better say,” added Belle. 

The ride home was a somewhat quiet one. All were 
tired. All were glad when Baylan was reached at last, 
just before dusk. 

John walked homeward from the depot with Miss 
Fay the. 

“You will come in a while,” she said, as they paused 
at her door. “ Come in and rest.” 


A GOOD DAY. 


II9 

He went in, a nameless longing at his heart. All the 
day through some subtle influence had been drawing him 
irresistibly to her. Her beauty never had thrilled him 
as it thrilled him now. 

“It has been a good day,” she said, after a moment’s 
silence. 

“Yes, a very good day,” he echoed back. “It is one 
of those days to keep.” 

“Yes,” simply, while her expressive eyes looked far 
away into distance. 

“If we could only keep it together ! ” he said tenderly, 
a moment later. 

She turned a look upon him such as he had never seen 
till now. 

“ What do you mean ? ” she asked, as much in hope as 
in doubt, if one might have judged by her face. 

And then neither of them knew how much would turn 
upon his answer. 


120 


HIS PRISON BARS. 


CHAPTER XXVII. 

THE OLD STORY. 

“I MEAN that I shall want you all my life,” John re- 
plied. 

Until now he had not realized the intensity of his re- 
gard for her. That intensity seemed to grow, in its very 
expression. 

“ I love you, Geraldine.” 

Very common-place, the expression was, — very old 
and common-place indeed. Yet for both these hearts it 
had a wonderful newness. 

“ I love you, Geraldine,” and his voice trembled as he 
repeated the words. “I am very poor, but I shall be 
richer, always, for having known you.” 

She did not speak, but breath came quick and fast. It 
seemed to her that he must hear each heart-throb. 

“ You have helped me so much ! ” 

He paused, still looking away from her, rather than 
into her face. 

“ I am very glad,” she said, presently. 

“ Glad that you have helped me, only ? ” 

“ No ; glad of it ! ” 

Her voice was low and tender, and the thrill in it told 
him more than the few words syllabled. He, too, was 
glad, and with a great joy. 

By and by he spoke again, impelled by a natural feel- 
ing of surprise. 


THE OLD STORY. 


I2I 


“ It seems strange that you should care for me,” he 
said. 

“ Why ? ” 

“ You have been loved and sought by so many who 
were more worthy of you. I can not offer you such as 
they could.” 

“ You can care for me, it seems.” 

“ Care ! ” 

She read a wealth of meaning .in this one word, as he 
uttered it. 

“ They could not do more, for any woman. For me 
they could not do as much. I have never worn my heart 
on my sleeve, for the daws to peck at. I could not love 
any one whom I did not first respect as my superior.” 

He was pleased, of course, by her assurance. So 
sweet a token could not but lift him higher in his own 
estimation. 

They sat long together, in that rare communion which 
supplements and completes a love first confessed. There 
were new possibilities for the first time to come, and some 
hint of these took hold on both. 

“ It has been a good day,” he said again, when at last 
he arose to leave. 

“Yes, a very good day,” and the emphasis of her smile 
was all he could have desired. 

“ I will bring a ring for you to wear in remembrance of 
it, and bearing the same date. Shall I not ? ” 

“ I shall never forget,” she said simply. 

“ Never forget that you are mine 1 ” he asked, kissing 
her upturned face. 

“ Never. I could not be another’s, after this.” 

Often in later days did he see her as she stood with 
him then, her lovely face radiant, her soulful eyes glowing 
with the love so freely given, her noble womanliness 


122 


HIS PRISON BARS. 


speaking out in full renunciation of all he could not 
bring into her life. And so often did he wish that he 
might have died with nothing between him and this pict- 
ure — with no memories of bane to shadow this one 
bright memory of blessing. 

“ But I will bring the ring, and you shall wear it as my 
seal of ownership,” and with this he said a tender good- 
night, and went away. 

Up in the solitude of her chamber Geraldine Faythe 
knelt down and thanked God. Have I told you that she 
was an earnest believer in prayer ? — that her name sym- 
bolized her character ? I do not remember. But telling 
it would have been only telling the; truth. Now she be- 
lieved this new relationship right and just, because these 
many months she had prayed about it, and had asked 
daily that unless it were right no love-words would ever 
be spoken. Some who little knew “ the brilliant and ac- 
complished Miss Faythe,” as she was frequently called, 
would not have believed her thus conscientious and trust- 
ful. There were those who thought her chief aim was to 
marry position and fortune. We who knew her best 
were certain she would never give her hand where her 
heart could not accompany it, and were equally certain 
that to confess her love would be with her a matter of 
conscientious care. 

She had long realized that she felt toward John Bremm 
as she had never felt toward any other man. She had 
realized — as what woman does not realize, under similar 
circumstances ? — that she was more to him than a pass- 
ing friend. She had hoped, with a hope modesty did not 
forbid, that there might come mutual confidence and af- 
fection. For love had lent glamour to its object, as love 
always will. She saw the best that was in John, and the 
best was very good. With her, and the little society they 


THE OLD STORY. 


123 


moved in, he was always at his best. His possibilities 
for bad she thought little of — less, indeed, than did he. 

So, as I have said, she thanked God. The way had 
been made ; the words had been spoken. Bound in the 
chains of her love she rejoiced as gladly as ever did the 
veriest slave set free. 

And John ? 

He was not given to praying, — this was the one thing 
about him which Geraldine troubled over. He had rarely 
thought of his probable future relations to her. Know- 
ing that he liked her company, and that she cheerfully 
accorded it, had been enough. What they might or might 
not be to each other he had not dwelt upon at all. 

This day’s results, as a consequence, were to him 
almost like a surprise. He had not dreamed that any 
day held for him such a store. He went out into the 
night in a kind of happy wonder, — wonder that so, with- 
out expectation, he had come into rare possession. 

He went to his room more pleased than he had ever 
been before. His pleasure had a new element in it, — a 
something sweeter and more satisfying than pleasures 
commonly hold. There was no sense of want, any more. 
His life seemed full. He even felt a strange glow of 
thankfulness, and looked up to the stars with a vague, 
unexpressed if not inexpressible, gratitude. In a degree, 
at least, he recognized the Eternal Goodness which 
speaks to us, often so softly that we do not hear its whis- 
per, through all sincere human love. 

Reaching his room he was in no haste to retire. 
Weary, as he must naturally have been, from the day’s 
fatigue, he was yet restless and little disposed to sleep. 
So he turned to his writing table, thinking to find some 
book that suited his mood. There his eyes fell upon 
what shocked him like a blow. 


124 


HIS PRISON BARS. 


It was a letter from Hope. He had received it the 
night before, and had laid it there after reading. To his 
consciousness, all this long day through, Hope Hensell 
had not lived. Now her sudden resurrection roused him 
as from a dream. They had been such good friends, he 
and Hope. What would Hope say ? 

For Hope must know. He would tell her, of course. 
And again he thought — what would she say? She 
liked him, certainly. He knew that. It had been a 
pleasant knowledge to him. She liked him, and possibly 
so well she would not gladly hear what now he had to 
tell. But he had not trifled with her, he reasoned. Had 
he not liked her in return ? Had he ever sought her 
love ? Had he been more to her than just a good friend ? 
Why should she not know and be glad over his fortune ? 

Yet he could not quite forget the tenderness he had 
many .times shown towards her, nor the shy readiness 
with which she had made response. And less happy than 
he should have been, he thrust the letter out of sight, and 
sought to sleep. 


POLITICAL MISSION. 


125 


CHAPTER XXVIII. 

POLITICAL MISSION. 

Summer came to a close. Autumn wore on into the 
flush of October’s glory. The mountains were every- 
where robed in their royal vestments, and inviting hom- 
age. Every day was like a psalm of praise. 

John saw the elms and maples flaming out upon him, 
even as the burning bush flamed out upon God’s servant 
of old. In the Park, which formed his daily outlook, 
and along the streets, there was a warmth of color that 
somehow made life itself a warmer and a gladder thing. 
Morning by morning he looked far over the city, sloping 
riverward — across the wide reach of water, busy with its 
various busy craft — over the straggling town which lined 
its farther bank — away up to the mountain peaks beyond, 
where glow of forest and glory of sky met and melted 
each into each. And day by day he felt a growing long- 
ing after Liscomb’s autumnal beauties, — an increasing 
desire to stand again upon the hill-top back of his old 
home, and enjoy once more the old outlook. To him, as 
possibly in a greater or less degree to all, each perfect 
October day was a recollection. It was as though the 
year had paused to remember, and he must remember 
with it. 

He had not cared to think much of Liscomb for a while 
past. As usual, there had been the weekly letter to his 
mother; the regular letter for print; an occasional one 


126 


HIS PRISON BARS. 


to Albert Burley, and, at longer intervals, one to Hope. 
But these had been incidental. They were not his daily 
being, or any considerable sum of it. Those friends at 
Liscomb were outside and apart ; his life was not now of 
them, or for them. He lived, largely, a life within him- 
self. So far as it reached outward, it was to the touch- 
ing chiefly of Geraldine Faythe. 

She wore the ring he gave her. She seemed glad, all 
the time, of his love and his claim. More than ever 
before she helped him and strengthened him. She sug- 
gested very many things to his thoughtful consideration, 
that hitherto he had been indifferent about. In ways so 
delicate he scarcely noticed, she turned his mind more 
and more to soberer purposes and nobler plans. She so 
took hold upon him that he knew no other possessing, 
and was content. 

True, he had still a little doubt concerning his relations 
with Hope. It did not trouble him much, though, after 
the first few days. By and by he would tell her about it, 
he argued. It was better not to write. Words on paper 
were sometimes cold and unsatisfactory. He would wait 
and talk with her face to face. So he had waited ; and 
yet now, when he desired to visit Liscomb, he felt inclined 
to wait still longer. His desire was twofold, and con- 
tradictory. It haunted him all through a month of sur- 
prising beauty and inspiration. Every one remarked 
how late the foliage held on that year. As a rare excep- 
tion, there were no frosts, and each leaf came to its per- 
fection of tint naturally, and in its own good time. 

One day the Governor sent for him. It was getting 
towards election time, and there was unusual interest de- 
veloping in the campaign. 

“Would you not like to go home for a few days, 
Bremm?” his Excellency inquired, when John came into 
his presence. 


POLITICAL MISSION. 


127 


“ I have been thinking of it,” he answered. 

“That is right — that is right.” His Excellency was 
given to affirming the expressions of his friends in some 
such vague but very affable way. 

“ There is a little matter at Liscomb, and about there, 
which you can look to,” he went on. “ I know you are 
discreet, and will do what is for the best. You had bet- 
ter arrange to go on Saturday, and stay until after elec- 
tion. Come in to-morrow, and Colonel Gessner will give 
you all needed instructions,” and the Governor bowed 
him out. 

Next day he received his instructions from the Govern- 
or’s private secretary, and that evening took leave of 
Geraldine for a week. On Saturday he went home. He 
was proud of a mission from his Excellency — proud of 
such a mark of confidence. It was a very simple matter 
of political business, — a bit of wire-pulling which any 
one could have done, having his cue; but this did not 
lessen his good feeling over it. 

The journey was a fitting end to all this month of re- 
membrance and desire. Never shone a rarer October 
day. Never did late-autumn tints hold such a brilliance 
as they held then. The scenery of the Little Rhine 
valley was more beautiful than ever it had seemed before. 
John’s poetic soul was in a quiet ecstasy of delight, until 
the journey ended at last, and he stepped from his seat 
on the stage to the platform in front of the Park House. 

“ Hello, Bremm ! ” shouted a familiar voice, and one 
of his former office associates shook him warmly by the 
hand. “ Glad to see you back ! Come in and take 
something.” 

“ No, thank you, Lafferty. No occasion.” 

“ Oh ! but you must ! You ’re dry as a fish, of course, 
after such a ride. Come along ! ” 


128 


HIS PRISON BARS. 


And John went. 

At the bar he hesitated. 

What shall it be ? ” said Lafferty. 

Geraldine’s face came up before him, as a veritable 
presence. 

“Only a lemonade, this time, Jo.” 

“ Not even a stick in it ? ” questioned Lafferty again, 
with a laugh. 

“No.” 

They took their drinks — Lafferty had a “ stick ” in his 
— and walked outside. As they stepped on the hotel 
piazza, John saw Hope crossing the street. 

“ Good night, Jo,” said he, “ I ’ll see you again to-mor- 
row,” and passing hastily along he joined her at the op- 
posite corner. 


TWO EVENINGS, 


129 


CHAPTER XXIX. 

TWO EVENINGS. 

“Why, John!” she said, quite surprised. “When did 
you come ? ” 

“ Just got in. Are n’t you glad to see me back ? ” 

“ Of course,” and she looked her pleasure. “ I began 
to think you must be going to come, because you did not 
write.” 

“ Has it been such a long time, then ? ” his voice catch- 
ing its old trick of tenderness. 

“You haven’t written to me in a month, and I sent 
you four whole sheets for my last latter.” 

“I know I have been very remiss, and I deserve a 
scolding. Will you give it to me now, or when you reach 
home ? ” 

“ If you ’ve any excuses to offer I ’ll hear them now.” 

“ Nothing but this : I have been so homesick the whole 
month past I did not like to think of writing. The au- 
tumn beauty has bewitched me, I imagine. I never 
wanted to see home and all, so, before.” 

“ Then the spell was not of your friends and home, but 
of the season?” she queried, doubtfully. She caught 
something of his meaning. 

“Both — you must know that,” and he looked so ear- 
nestly into her face, that she was satisfied. 

At Mr. Hensell’s gate he stopped. 

“ You will come in to supper ? ” said Hope. “ Your 
9 


HIS PRISON BARS. 


130 

mother is not expecting you, and it will make no differ- 
ence with her.” 

“ Supper and the scolding ? ” he asked, laughing. 

“ No ; I ’ll forgive you this time. Supper and a good 
visit. Come.” 

It might as well be now as ever, he thought. He would 
tell her of Geraldine, after tea. So he passed into the 
house. 

Mrs. Hensell met him, as she always did, with motherly 
affection. 

“ It is good to see you with us again, John,” she said. 
“ You are improved, too. Baylan agrees with you, I 
guess.” 

“ Yes, except when it breaks ray bones.” 

“You are all over that, are you not ? I see you do not 
carry any cane.” 

“ The fracture healed perfectly, thanks to a skillful 
surgeon,” he answered. 

“ You are fortunate, indeed. So many are left with a 
limp.” 

They talked of Liscomb affairs, Hope’s school matters, 
and the like, until Mr. Hensell came. His greeting was 
especially cordial. He saw more and more in John, and 
predicted much for his future. “John is growing,” he 
had only that morning said to Hope. “ By and by he 
will surprise us all.” 

“You did well to run up for a few days,” he declared. 
“ Stay until after election, of course ? ” 

“Yes, sir.”' 

“Lively times here in this district — a sort of three- 
cornered fight, for Assembly. Fairchild is ahead, but 
they are pulling everything to beat him. We must do all 
we can to win.” 

“ I came up partly for that. Our folks must have the 


TWO EVENINGS. I31 

Assembly next winter, sure, or lose United States Sena- 
tor.” 

“ The Governor expects that, I suppose ? ” 

“ He does n’t say much, of course, but that is on the 
slate. Uncle Israel is up for Senator from his district, 
and writes me he is sure to be elected. If the Governor 
goes to Washington he may be a candidate for the 
gubernatorial chair.” 

“Your Uncle Israel is a rising man, and will succeed 
anywhere. You are lucky in having him for a backer.” 

And thus they talked on, through the supper hour, and 
while Mr. Hensell remained. After he left for his even- 
ing visit to the post-office, Hope and John were alone 
together. 

For a while they spoke of indifferent things — his last 
published sketch, her recent essay, the books they had 
lately read. It was easy to lead the conversation on to 
every subject but the one he felt must be broached. And 
now that he was with her — now that she seemed so glad 
of his presence, and so sure of his regard — his purpose 
weakened. Was it needful, after all, that he do as he 
had proposed ? Why not let the old intimate relationship 
between them have its way, as hitherto ? She might re- 
fuse him her sisterly affection and sympathy, if she knew. 
And these were very sweet. He had not known how 
much he cared for them until now he must put them in 
peril. 

So, questioning and doubting, the short evening wore 
away, and he must leave. He arose, half glad of some 
excuse he might make to himself for further postpone- 
ment, and went away. 

His mother had heard of his arrival, through Albert 
Burley, and was impatiently waiting for him. 

“ Who did you come home to see ? ” she asked with 
some petulance. 


132 


HIS PRISON BARS. 


“ Oh, everybody,” and he laughed. “ Met Hope down 
street, and went home with her to supper. I knew you 
would n’t be looking for me.” 

“ Seems to me if you ’d cared very much for your 
mother, you ’d ’a’ come home first.” 

Her habit of complaint had not lessened any, he saw. 

“ What is Hope Hensell to you, that you should want 
to see her most ? ” 

“ Nothing, mother, only my friend. And I should have 
come straight home if I had not chanced to meet her.” 

He was annoyed by her reception, but spoke calmly 
enough. 

She muttered her significant “ Humph ! ” and fell to 
talking of other affairs in her usual complaining way. 

The week went by. John was busy part of the time 
with looking after things political, but found opportunity 
to see much of his friends. One day he and Albert drove 
out to the old home, and spent some hours there, going 
to Albert’s home, toward night, for supper. *‘’Bert has a 
mother, now, to be glad of,” thought John, as he saw Mrs. 
Burley moving quietly about the house, her serene face 
and placid voice sure evidence of a soul serene and 
placid. 

“ What difference there is in mothers ! ” he said to 
’Bert, as they were walking up the hill after tea,, to enjoy 
sunset from his old lookout. “ Your mother is a saint ! ” 

“ No ; but she will be, sometime,” answered ’Bert, 
softly. “I hope the time is far distant though. We 
could n’t get along without mother. She is the heart of 
our home.” 

’Bert rarely said a great deal, but what he said had 
always its meaning. 

They climbed the summit in silence, and for half an 
hour they sat there on a huge bowlder, rapt in the sun- 


T^O EVENINGS. 


133 


set’s glory. It was not a place for much speech, with 
two who could feel as deeply all impressive influences as 
could these. When they descended into the deepening 
twilight below, they were silent still ; and little was said 
by either as they rode back to the village. 

Election passed off, amid more than the usual local ex- 
citement. Fairchild was among the successful candidates, 
and gave a little supper to his friends, the evening of the 
next day, at which John was called out for a speech. It 
was his maiden effort, and though applauded to the echo 
was very unsatisfactory to him, and greatly increased his 
respect for those fortunate men who can think on their 
legs. Wine circulated freely, and of course John must 
drink. The more he drank, the more he wanted to drink, 
and for the first time he went home quite intoxicated. 
Fortunately, the rest of the company were not in much 
better condition, and thought nothing of it, and he escaped 
observation on the street. Fortunately, again, his mother 
was in bed, and Albert away. But next day he was full 
of bitterness and remorse. 

“ Fool that I am,” he thought, when at a late hour he 
woke and recalled the evening’s excess. “I deserve 
hanging.” He thought of Geraldine, as he said this to 
himself. How could he touch her pure lips, on his re- 
turn ? Then he thought of Hope. What would she say, 
if she knew ? * 

He dressed slowly, took his breakfast in such a de- 
jected manner that his mother actually forbore all com- 
plaint, and sauntered aimlessly down street. Nearly the 
whole day he sat in “ The Telescope ” office, thinking 
his bitter thoughts. Several came in and complimented 
him on his speech ; more than one asked him out to 
drink. Compliment and invitation were alike distasteful 
to him. He wanted to get away from them all. 


134 


HIS PRISON BARS. 


- Toward night he went over to Mr. HenselFs. His bit- 
ter mood was wearing off, and he longed for pleasant 
companionship. Moreover, he was to start for Baylan 
next morning, and this would be his last opportunity with 
Hope. 

Hope met him with more than her usual cordiality of 
welcome. 

“You have made your debut as an orator, I hear,” she 
said. “ Father was at the supper, and heard your speech. 
He said it was capital.” 

“Did he stay until the close?” John hoped not, but 
he asked the question hesitatingly. He had wanted to 
ask it of Mr. Hensell himself all day. 

“ No. He came away early, for he had work to do.” 

John was thankful for that, since now Hope might 
never know of his temptation and fall. 

At the very last, it was no easier to speak of the special 
subject he felt most need to mention. If the day’s bitter- 
ness had not made him somewhat desperate, he might 
have let it go unmentioned even now. 

“ You have been a good little friend to me, Hope,” he 
said at length, drawing her to him in brotherly familiarity. 
“ I think more of your friendship than I can tell.” 

She answered his caress in her own shy way, which 
somehow seemed so peculiar to herself. 

“ You will always be my friend, will you not ? ” 

“Always.” 

“ I cannot afford to lose you out of my life,” he went 
on. 

She made no answer, but he felt her slight form trem- 
ble, and in spite of himself he could not add a word. By 
and by, when he broke silence again, it was in such a 
changed and trembling voice that she looked at him half 
in affright. 


TfVO EVENINGS. 


135 


“ What if I have another good friend ? ” he asked. 

Her strange, luminous eyes shone with a light in them 
he never saw before. 

“ I do not understand,” she answered, her voice also 
changed. 

‘‘ I have written to you of Geraldine Faythe ? ” 

“You never spoke of her as specially your friend — 
you have hardly spoken of her at all.” 

He knew not what to say. She trembled in his clasp 
like a frightened fawn hid from the hunter. 

“ Is she specially your friend ? ” she asked, almost 
under her breath. 

It seemed to him now that he would give worlds to be 
able to say “No,” — to tell this trembling, trusting friend 
he wanted no other friendship and love than hers. What 
he was to this heart, beating so hard and fast so near his 
own, it required no words to syllable. 

“ Yes ; she is very specially my friend : she has prom- 
ised to be my wife.” 

It was told, finally. There was no more to say. 

Hope did not draw away from him, as some would have 
felt called upon to do. With her head resting upon his 
shoulder, and his arm still encircling her, she sat there 
for many moments, speechless as he. It seemed, indeed, 
as if she could not speak. Her throat was full ; she felt 
as she afterward imagined people to feel when suffocating. 
When he went on to tell her somewhat about Geraldine, 
she heard him quietly, never looking up. 

“You will like her, I am sure,” he said at last. 

“But why did you not write or tell me about her, 
before ? ” 

“ I was afraid of losing the only sister I had,” he re- 
plied, frankly. 

“ There was no need to be afraid of that,” she said, 
speaking calmly now. “ You have told her about me? ” 


HIS PRISON BARS. 


136 . 

“Yes, and she likes you already.” 

“Then of course I shall like her. Tell her so, for 
me.” 

It was a rather sad leave-taking, later. Hope’s face 
wore a soberer expression than he remembered ever to 
have seen upon it, and he saw the traces of tears. When 
he bent and kissed her, in brotherly fashion, he saw a look 
in her eyes that haunted him for months. And as he 
walked slowly homeward he felt a tumult of emotions in 
his breast that found no peace until far on into the night. 


HOPE'S DISAPPOINTMENT. 


137 


CHAPTER XXX. 
hope’s disappointment. 

If all those rare October days had been a memory, that 
dull, chill day of November, on which John journeyed 
back to Baylan, was a regret. What he regretted I can- 
not quite define. It was not now his lapse from temper- 
ance — that had somehow been shadowed over by the 
evening with Hope. It was not his love for and engage- 
ment to Geraldine Faythe — that he felt certain was right. 
It was not Hope’s love for him, in itself — that, too, was 
sweet and pleasant to think upon. Perhaps, more than 
anything else, it was the fact that in ways he thought lit- 
tle of at the time, he had called out her love; that now 
she must suffer and grieve, and he be not strictly blame- 
less. 

All through the long day’s ride he brooded over his 
vague, indefinite thoughts. It should have been a happy 
day to him : he was returning to a desirable winter’s work, 
in a position few young men could secure ; he was return- 
ing to love and sympathy of the tenderest and sweetest. 
He had done his duty by Hope, at last, and her friend- 
ship and sisterly interest were not forfeited. But still he 
was unhappy, though in such a very uncertain way that 
even he could not have explained it. 

Not until the cars reached Unionville, and he realized 
that Baylan was but half an hour beyond, did he begin to 
feel like himself. As he was walking briskly up Province 
Street he met Hull Latimer. 


HIS PRISON BARS. 


138 

“Just been to see if you had returned/^ said Hull. 
“ A dozen of us are going up to the Observatory to-night, 
if the sky is clear, and we want you. Miss Fay the is over 
at our house.” 

He would rather have had Geraldine’s society alone, 
this evening, John felt, but of course he would go, and 
thus he promised. 

Two hours later he was on Murray Hill, at the Lati- 
mers’. Miss Faythe was looking more lovely than her 
wont, and her cordial greeting, added to the cordiality of 
all the rest, toned him up at once. A touch of Hull’s wit 
was enough to sharpen his mental activities at any time, 
and to-night Hull was unusually keen. All the little 
company, in fact, were feeling at their best, and John soon 
forgot every bitter thought, every regretful memory, and 
lived but in the merry jest and repartee. 

They did not go to the Observatory. The sky re- 
mained overcast all the evening, and there was every 
prospect of rain. So they enjoyed themselves as this lit- 
tle coterie well knew how to do, and separated at an early 
hour. John walked home with Geraldine, and told her 
something of his visit. He did not tell of it all. That 
supper of Fairchild’s he chose not to recall, and that last 
evening with Hope — seemingly so far away now — he 
merely alluded to. In assuring Hope that he had told 
Geraldine of her, he had not spoken untruly. But he had 
spoken of Hope only as a dear good friend. That she 
might cherish toward him any other than simple friendly 
feeling he had not hinted. 

He had thought, first, to tell Geraldine of his step into 
sin. He owed her thus much of frank confession, it 
seemed. Yet he shrank from it, and had squarely decided 
that, the deed being in the past, he would bury it and go 
on anew, more carefully and more worthily. He knew 


HOPE'S DISAPPOINTMENT. 1 39 

well how Geraldine’s pure nature abhorred impurity ; he 
feared she might unconsciously turn away, if only a little, 
and be less to him and his life. And now she was so 
much ! A sense of his weakness came over him, even as 
he walked by her side, such as he never before realized ; 
a new recognition of her womanly strength dawned upon 
him, as in a moment. He was glad, in a fuller gladness 
than he had experienced until now, that she would be 
henceforth a help to him, and a blessing. 

He had not been accustomed to think of himself as 
weak. He had as much of self-conceit as usually charac- 
terizes very young manhood. But just now a truer meas- 
urement of self was suggested to his mind. It would not 
long last ; it was a temporary bit of insight that came, I 
know not how, exactly, and though sure to return, would 
not be permanent. 

To Hope Hensell this evening was a dreary end to a 
long, dreary day. Was it a little thing that she had given 
her love, and it had been passed by, as of nothing worth ? 
So it may seem to you and I, who know that all romances 
have their endings, that no dreams endure. To her it 
was the one great fact of human experience. She had 
not passed such a restless night as some story-tellers 
would credit her with. She had shed some hitter tears, 
after John’s departure; she had read over again some of 
his letters, recalled once more many of his little tender- 
nesses — had sought some excuse for her love in his often 
manifest affection, and finding excuse sufficient had ended 
with a feeling of indignation in which she had sunk to 
sleep. 

Good healthy bodies will conquer troubled hearts, as a 
rule. Hope was strong and well. It was not likely she 
would pine away because of misplaced love, and this fact 
comforted her mother when she saw, next day, with a 


140 


HIS PRISON BARS. 


mother’s quick intuition, that something had gone wrong 
between Hope and John. Healthy people never die of 
love. 

But all day Hope had felt a loss. She missed some- 
thing. No wonder the sky was dull and leaden, she 
thought. The world had gone wrong. And at evening, 
when Albert Burley called, she had hard work to be civil 
and agreeable. What did she care now for the matters 
he talked of? She would rather be alone. When he 
took his leave, as he soon did, rather chilled by her man- 
ner, she went to her room, and again read over John’s 
letters — again shed some unavailing tears, and then, like 
a sensible girl as she was, resolutely put the past behind 
her, resolved to cherish no regrets, and fancied herself 
grown older by many years. 


THE CONTEST FOR SENATOR. 


141 


CHAPTER XXXI. 

THE CONTEST FOR SENATOR. 

Two months went rapidly by. The first week in Janu- 
ary came, and the Legislature convened. Speaker Bremm 
returned to Baylan as senator, having been elected “by 
an overwhelming majority,” as his party papers said — 
“ a very manifest expression of the popular wish and will.” 
They did not say that for weeks before election he had 
done nothing but manipulate men in his interest ; that he 
had gone up and down in his district, placing money in 
the hands of judicious friends to be judiciously expended 
in controlling votes ; that at every place where liquor was 
sold he had arranged for a liberal dispensation of “free 
drinks,” to the same wholesome end ; that when election- 
day came, at every polling-place there was a miscellane- 
ous buying of manhood, or what passes for it, by his loyal 
and zealous followers ; that he was really elected by “ an 
overwhelming majority ” of dollars and drinks. 

No ; they said nothing of all this. But the organs of 
the defeated candidates said what meant about the same 
thing j and they hinted that the Hon. Israel Bremm, hav- 
ing spent a small fortune to secure election, might possi- 
bly take the first opportunity to make a small fortune 
through his election. Which was a very wicked hint in- 
deed, and made the Hon. Israel Bremm and his friends 
exceeding wroth. 

The senator greeted his nephew warmly, and at once 


HIS PRISON BARS. 


142 

volunteered to secure him an additional place as clerk 
of a committee ; it would add to his pay and perquisites, 
and he could readily do the little extra work. It would 
be well for him, too, to do correspondence for some daily 
paper, and this, the senator thought, could be readily ar- 
ranged. 

John became clerk to the Committee on Judiciary, of 
which his uncle was made a prominent member — high 
honor for one first taking the senatorial seat — and he 
also became correspondent for “The Metropolitan,” a 
tolerably well-known, but not largely circulating daily 
journal, published in Metropolisville, to which he was 
bound to write three letters each week. He had thus 
enough to do, his regular office labor being considerable, 
and it was fortunate that he had. , He was less apt to run 
into dissipation than he might have been if idle much of 
the time. 

That was a lively winter in Baylan. I remember that 
there were an unusual number of important measures 
brought before both houses — “jobs,” we were wont to 
call them who saw behind the scenes. The lobby was 
present in stronger force than in many years before ; there 
were factional fights, and fiery discussions without number, 
and half a dozen investigating committees, all of which 
served to keep up excitement, and make legislation more 
interesting than in its normal condition it ever is. 

Socially, too, it was a brilliant season. A Baylan man, 
of high social and professional position, was Speaker, and 
he gave receptions liberally — being an aspirant for the 
governorship, it was said, and courting popularity. The 
Lieutenant-Governor was a temporary householder in 
Baylan, and he, too, was itching for promotion at the 
hands of the people, and* he, too, gave stylish receptions. 
And the Governor — he held levees and receptions far 


THE CONTEST FOR SENATOR. 


143 

ahead of any ever previously inaugurated, because, for- 
sooth, he was to be balloted for by and by, in joint ses- 
sion, for United States Senator, and he knew that the 
broadest way to friendly consideration and regard is 
through a man’s stomach. What tables his Excellency 
did set, that winter ! And how more than ever kind and 
affable he was to all ! Whoever went to him, on whatever 
errand, went away strong in the faith that Governor 
Smoothe could not be excelled for gentlemanly courtesy, 
however he might lack in statesmanship. 

Of course he won. It was a sharp race for the sen- 
atorial honors, but the Governor was an old politician, 
somewhat of the Israel Bremm type, and more experi- 
enced than he, and he laid his plans well. People said 
he spent money to succeed ; the opposition papers charged 
that votes were bought, right upon the Assembly floor, 
while the ballot was in progress, but it was certainly a 
cruel charge, and had no foundation in truth. These 
grave senators, and less grave assemblymen, might buy 
votes to secure their own election, but is it likely they 
would sell their own votes in the election of any other 
man or men ? They were too honorable, of course, to 
permit of such a thing. 

Naturally enough, John was wrought into a fever of 
party enthusiasm, while the senatorial fight raged. The 
chief candidate was his friend, and he was proud of that 
friendship. He owed the Governor something, moreover, 
for position, and was willing, even anxious, to do for him 
whatever service he could. And for a young man, with- 
out a vote, he had done considerable, and was as elated 
when the result came as though he had done it all. 

They made a night of it, down at the Leviathan House, 
after the contest ended — a night of hilarity and good- 
fellowship. The Governor’s warmest partisans were all 


144 


HIS PRISON BARS. 


there ; they filled the parlors, and overran the corridors, 
I and thronged the bar. The Governor was a temperance 
man in his own person, as the term temperance goes 
among men of politics. That is to say, he never drank 
much himself. We have seen that he kept liquors in 
his house, and served them to his guests. So now, in 
his temporary parlors at the Leviathan, where he received 
a crowd of enthusiastic supporters, he dispensed freely 
of champagne, and seemed no wise disturbed that many 
injudicious friends too deeply drank his success. 

John had refrained from drink, almost entirely, thus 
far. At receptions he had indulged little. In his daily 
association he had held wholly aloof. That supper of 
Fairchild’s, with its results, came to his mind often, and 
brought always chagrin and remorse. He was very near 
to vowing, whenever he thought of it, that henceforth he 
would not taste intoxicating beverage again. If he had 
so vowed, then, he might have saved much of the bitter 
experiences which followed, and I might never have writ- 
ten what I have been writing, and what is still left for me 
to write. 

But amid this excited throng at the Leviathan he was 
just a creature of the hour, as excited as any about him, 
and with no thought of yesterday or to-morrow. He 
drank with the rest. He cheered the Governor’s little 
speech as boisterously as they. He drank again and 
again, for his blood was hot, and his brain giddy. With 
a dozen other young fellows, — correspondents, depart- 
ment clerks, etc., — he grew more and more jubilant, and 
when older heads had sensibly withdrawn, these remained, 
drinking now for the drink’s sake it seemed, and heedless 
of nearly all the proprieties. 

One or two staggered away in time to stagger home- 
ward without assistance; the others stayed until they 


THE CONTEST FOR SENATOR. 1 45 

reeled into chairs sprawlingly, one by one, maundering 
unintelligibly, and sank into the heavy slumber of a deb- 
auchee. Of these latter was John, for whom Geraldine 
Fay the had hours before put up her nightly prayer, in 
whose nobleness and moral strength she fondly believed, 
for whose future she so often pictured grand and beauti- 
ful things. And while she slept the sleep of purity and 
trust, he whom she loved as her life lay there in his 
drunken unconsciousness, an object only for present 
loathing and disgust. 

10 


146 


HIS PRISON BARS. 


I 


CHAPTER XXXII. 

THE GREAT UPGIVING. 

When John- went slowly up Province Street, late next 
morning, he felt as if he had been convicted of a crime. 
Much of his debauch he had little recollection of, but the 
one fact that he had drank to excess, and had been again 
intoxicated, was enough. All day he was as a criminal in 
his own sight. His party friends were in high spirits over 
the victory just won ; but he, for the time being, sickened 
of it. He could not do his work. He tried it, and found 
trying useless. Finally he went home, sought his room, 
flung himself morbidly upon his bed, and was soon asleep. 

Miss Faythe expected a call from him that evening, 
but he did not come. For the very good reason that he 
never wakened until nearly ten o’clock. Then, having 
slept off some of his self-reproach, he went to the Capitol, 
found the Assembly busy with excited discussion upon 
the question of Excise in Metropolisville, and presently 
became so absorbed in a report of the debate for “ The 
Metropolitan,” that he forgot everything beside, and 
wrote rapidly until one o’clock, when the house ad- 
journed. 

By the day following, another feeling had grown up in 
his mind. Why thus reproach himself? it urged. He 
had done no great wrong. True, he had been a little too 
indulgent, but .that was not a serious thing. Men must 
drink, at such times, and what if some did go beyond the 


THE GEE AT UPGIVING. 


147 

limit ? He was very strict, as a rule. There were not 
many young men, in positions similar, whose habits were 
so regular as his. He must not be too strict with himself. 
A little lee-way now and then no sensible people could 
blame him for. Those who would condemn so rare lapses 
from sobriety as he had indulged were fanatical. 

Such was about the substance of his thought. Even 
Geraldine would excuse him he was sure. Yet somehow 
he decided to say nothing to her of the matter, and he 
was glad that her acquaintance with the Capitol attaches 
was limited. There was no probability that she would 
hear of what transpired at the Leviathan unless he told 
her j and there was no need that he speak of it. She 
possibly might not realize just what the spirit of the oc- 
casion really was, and she might think he had less reason 
than he really had to overstep ordinary bounds. 

So he kept silent with regard to it, and Geraldine held 
on blindly to her perfect faith in him. But he was not 
satisfied with himself. The reasoning he had sought 
comfort in was not so good as it ought to have been, and 
he knew it. For a whole week after, he was in a fever 
of unrest, and because so dissatisfied and troubled, he did 
daily what he daily sought additional excuse for doing — 
he drank. Not largely, but just to steady his nerves, and 
help him perform his work. He was not quite well, he 
believed ; he needed some stimulant. His system re- 
quired toning up. Which reasoning a physician indorsed, 
as physicians are very apt to do at times, and he could 
take his wine now with a good conscience. 

The winter wore away. Hurry and excitement marked 
the closing days of the session. The poorly paid legisla- 
tors worked night and day, as few men work elsewhere, 
and with the poor satisfaction of knowing, that much they 
did was but half done. Such as were honest, and wanted 


HIS PRISON BARS. 


148 

to serve well the people^ came to feel a contempt for com- 
mon legislative methods, and to doubt if, as a rule, legis- 
lation were not less a blessing than a curse. Such as 
lacked honesty, and were looking chiefly to self, found 
good opportunity to put money in their purse j and if 
they neglected so to do, they have been grossly libeled. 

The Senate Judiciary Committee was overrun with busi- 
ness, and John found his clerkship thereof not a sinecure. 
He began to tire of all this confusion and haste — this 
continual besetment of men by men that he saw daily 
about him — this pulling hither and thither of diverse in- 
fluences — this bartering of votes, and pledging of aid, 
and doing of doubtful things. It was such a life as a 
lively, vigorous temperament enjoys, for its liveliness and 
change, but such a life as is nevertheless damaging to a 
man’s moral sense, and wearisome to stand out against in 
purity. 

In the midst of legislative fret and flurry, almost as 
a rebuke to individual meanness and petty partisanship, 
there came one day a great shock. In the face of it men 
stood awed. As in mute protest, party leaders who had 
fought bitter battles, in the Senate and in the House, 
shook each other’s hands. Men who had known but one 
word of political significance, and with whom that word 
was Party, learned a new one of Patriotism, and the new 
word — new with a meaning none had felt until then — 
was Union. 

Sumter had been fired upon. From that little low-lying 
fortress in Charleston harbor, a thrill of pain had gone 
out all over our broad land. How it chilled us, shall we 
ever forget? In Baylan there was nervous excitement 
such as you would nowhere see outside a State capital, or 
the national capital itself. The legislature did its work 
amid more of feverish tumult than ever before. Crowds 


THE GREAT UPGIVING. 


149 

besieged it, drawn there, many of them, by the vaguest 
reasons. And when came the President’s call for seventy- 
five thousand men, the old Capitol knew more activity 
and unrest than it had seen in a generation. 

Thenceforward, until the legislature adjourned, and on 
through the late spring and early summer, there was no 
lack of mental stimulus. Our whole country' was in a 
fever. Wherever men held executive power, there the 
fever centered. At every governmental head-quarters 
there was constant stir and bustle. Men lived months in 
a day, or so it seemed. Those of us who were at Baylan 
then, cannot even recall the time without a quickening of 
the pulse, and a flushing of the cheek. 

When Congress authorized the levying a large army, as 
it did in midsummer, one of the first to respond to the 
call, and to proceed promptly in the organizing of a regi- 
ment, was Senator Bremm. He had personal popularity, 
the prestige of political success, the enthusiasm of a man 
in his early prime, and as much of genuine patriotism as 
the average. In twenty days he had his regiment up to 
the maximum ; in a week more it was efi route for the 
front. Arrived there, he wrote to John. 

“ Give lip your place,” he said, “ and come to me. I 
am to command a brigade, and you shall go on my staff. 
This business is not to be finished in a day, and it will 
pay you to come. You can get an engagement as corre- 
spondent of one of the large dailies, which will be much to 
your advantage, and will have plenty of time for the work, 
as your duties as my aid will be only nominal.” 

Did Israel Bremm thus early see of what service to any 
commander, desirous of making reputation, a keen news- 
paper correspondent might be ? Perhaps. He was far- 
sighted, and he never failed to think of himself, in what- 
ever he did. 


HIS PRISON BARS. 


150 

John had become so restless, amid all the feverish sur- 
roundings of the past few months, that he was ready for 
anything which promised excitement and success. His 
uncle’s offer suited his mental condition. He had begun 
to tire of the office routine, and a change from indoor 
clerical life to the life of a camp struck his fancy, as it 
struck the fancy of so many young men ; then, too, he was 
aglow with love for the old flag. To cast his lot with it, 
and follow its fortune, had in it romance and glory. 

So he wrote his uncle to secure the commission, re- 
signed his clerkship, his resignation to take effect at the 
end of the month, and that evening visited Miss Faythe 
to bear the news of his important decision. 

Those were days of unselfish upgiving. Mothers, wives, 
and sweethearts yielded their own, as if to the sacrament. 
Sad days they were, because of the partings and the pain. 
Yet they were noble days. The hearts of men ran over. 
Party bickerings faded out. Little differences melted 
away in presence of that one great difference which 
divided the land. As in a day, men had been born into 
new brotherly love and impulse. They gave of their time, 
their treasure, and their tears. They gave with a liberab 
ness never before known. To give was no longer a sac^- 
rifice, but a sublime duty, almost a great joy. 

Miss Faythe was not really surprised when John told 
his purpose. She had seen, these many weeks, what 
might come. In the solitude of her prayers, she had 
thought of it, and anxiously. Over and over she had 
asked of God that John might be led to do what was 
right, even if the doing cost her trial and grieving. To- 
night when he came, she felt the test-hour at hand. Even 
before he spoke, some subtle intuition prefaced every 
word. 

What if I were to leave Baylan ? ” he asked. 


THE GEE AT UPGIVING. 


151 

She looked at him curiously, questioningly, certain of 
his meaning, and yet playing at uncertainties with her- 
self. 

“ You know Uncle Israel is at the front ? ” 

“Yes.” 

“ He wants me to join him. I have written him that I 
will. Have I done right t ” 

“ I suppose so.” 

She did not like to seem certain. Indeed, at this mo- 
ment she scarcely felt certain as to what might be right 
or might be wrong. The only certainty in her mind was 
a great doubt. 

“ When must you go .? ” she asked. 

“ In a fortnight. I must go home first.” 

“ What will your mother say } ” 

He had not specially thought of his mother until now. 

“ She will worry some, probably,” he said. “ She 
would anyhow, so it does n’t so much matter.” 

“ But you are all she has to depend on. What if you 
should not come back ? ” 

As she said this, Geraldine’s eyes filled. What if he 
should not come back — to her ! He saw the feeling she 
tried to hide, and answered by both word and caress. 

“ Oh, I shall come back. I am not going as a common 
soldier, you know. I shall be in no danger. It will be 
more a play-spell for me, than anything else. My chief 
work will be as a correspondent.” 

And then he told her just what his uncle had written, 
and they talked long about the matter. She did not dis- 
courage him. On the contrary, she spoke quite as hope- 
fully as he, for she saw that his desire was strong, and his 
purpose not easy to be changed, even did she wish to 
change it. But there was one point she felt impelled to 
speak plainly upon. 


152 


HIS PRISON BARS. 


“ I fear as much for yourself, as for your body,” she 
said, finally. “ Army life must be full of temptation.” 

“ And is not life anywhere ? ” he responded. “ There 
cannot well be worse temptation for a man than I have 
met here in Baylan.” 

“ But here you have good influences to counteract the 
bad. I am afraid you will miss these, there.” 

“ There are as many good men at the front as stay at 
home. My associations will be altogether with the offi- 
cers, and they are generally men of character and stand- 
ing.” 

And thus he parried her doubts, one by one, pleased 
by her solicitude, and rather amused than otherwise by 
her anxious expression. 

“ You will come often, the little time there is left ? ” 
she asked, when he took leave. 

“Yes. In a week I must go to Liscomb, to say my 
good-byes. Until then you shall see me every evening, 
and when I return there will be two or three days more 
before my final departure.” 

So every evening John visited her; every evening she 
met him with a smiling face, and talked in her earnest, 
hopeful, almost childishly frank way ; every evening she 
gave him his good-night kiss as cheerfully as though they 
were thus to meet and part daily forever ; and every even- 
ing she went to her room almost as heavy-hearted and sad 
as though this parting had been the final one, and wept 
bitter tears until weeping lost itself in prayer, and in 
prayer she dropped asleep. 

Mrs. Bremm was prepared for John’s good-by, by a let- 
ter he wrote, but still she was as Rachel, and refused to 
be comforted. It was very unfeeling of him to go off into 
the army and get killed when she had only him left. 
The Lord would remember it of him. If he owed a duty 


THE GREAT UFGIVING. 


153 


anywhere, it was to her. So she talked, much of the day 
or two he was at home. But while she talked, she worked 
diligently, fixing up the many little needfuls he would now 
want with him, and when he was ready to go she had be- 
gun to feel a sort of motherly pride in this boy who stood 
ready to go forth in their country’s behalf. 

John found the good-byes more sober than he had 
thought, when he left Liscomb. Poor Hope ! She fell 
on his shoulder at the last, and sobbed her very heart out. 
Her mother cried as though John were indeed her son, 
and were going away forever. Mrs. Bremm clung to him 
as tenderly as though no unpleasant word had ever es- 
caped her lips. Burley put an arm around him in his 
quiet, affectionate way, and only said “ Be good to your- 
self, John.” More people than he remembered ever to 
have known in the little village, crowded about him at the 
stage, and wished him w^ell with a warm hand-clasp. 

At Baylan John was given his lieutenant’s commission 
by the Governor himself. “You are commissioned in 
Colonel Bremm’s regiment,” he said, “ and will be as- 
signed to duty on his staff as soon as his brigade is made 
up, and he takes command. You will have a pleasant 
place, as army places go.” 

John donned his uniform, and felt like another creature. 
Of course he wore it on one of his last calls upon Geral- 
dine, that she might see him as a soldier. They went, 
over to the Latimers’ that evening, and there he said fare- 
wells to several of the coterie, who had come in. Next 
night was the last with Geraldine, and the saddest good- 
by yet. She was cheerful and hopeful nearly the whole 
evening, but at the very last she broke down utterly, and 
sobbed upon his breast like a grieved child. When he 
tore himself away she was sobbing still, and his own 
cheeks were wet with tears not all her own. 


154 


HIS PRISON BARS. 


CHAPTER XXXIIL 

AT THE FRONT. 

Two weeks later, John wrote the following letter to 
Miss Faythe: — 

In Camp near Alexandria, > 
August — , 1861. j 

Dear Heart, — Are the days long to you? Here they 
are surprisingly short. There is such a tumult and fever all 
the while. I don’t know hardly what I do, but it seems as if 
I never was busy before. Since Uncle Israel came into com- 
mand of his brigade a few days ago, as I wrote you, my duties 
have been greatly multiplied. Perhaps it will be different 
after a little, when we get fully organized, but so far I am per- 
suaded that those who think army life a lazy life are vastly 
mistaken. It is exciting, and taxing, to the last degree. Just 
now we are getting ourselves into fighting trim, and a splen- 
did army we shall be by and by. McClellan is a fine organ- 
izer, and the men all idolize him. You should see the furore 
he creates whenever he appears. He is another Napoleon, 
and will do grand things for the country when he gets his 
army well in hand. 

Uncle Israel takes to this army business as though born to 
it. He will wear two stars yet, in place of one, if he does n’t 
get prematurely knocked over. Now please don’t go to think- 
ing officers are much exposed, because I dropped that remark, 
for you see, darling, they are not. I have already learned 
enough of the art of war to know that a good field officer 
keeps in the rear of his command, and I propose to be a very 
good officer — in this respect. 

As aid on a general’s staff I have many privileges, and 


AT THE FRONT. 


155 

though so busy, I cannot very well complain. I run over to 
Washington almost daily, and it is curious to see the crowds 
there. What a hive the place is ! It seems to be swarming 
continually. The hangers-on at the various departments make 
up an army almost as large as this which General McClellan 
is bringing into shape and discipline. I saw the President 
yesterday — a great ungainly man, with a plain face so sad in 
in its expression it would sadden you. He was passing along 
the street alone. They tell odd stories of him, and I know 
many think he is too undignified for the position he holds, and 
that he has no proper conception of the responsibility resting 
upon him ; but it must be these never saw him as I saw him, 
with that anxious, troubled look. If I had never seen his 
picture, or known a description of him, I should have pitied 
him, as one carrying a burden. 

I can not realize yet that in all this busy din, and whirl, and 
show, we are not playing at war. I know that just over in 
the village yonder brave young Ellsworth was shot, and I 
remember Big Bethel, and Bull Run. But that is all. That 
these gay trappings about me, which look so beautiful and 
brilliant, are meant for serious uses, I can scarcely believe. 
Our brigade is made up of five regiments — full and well offi- 
cered. They are all our own State men, and noble fellows. 
One of the noblest is Captain Silvers, of the staff, whom you 
would like, I am sure. He is a graduate of Yale, and a fine 
scholar. It was he who wrote that pretty little poem in last 
month’s “ Pacific Monthly,” which we admired so much. I 
accidentally found it out, and then I told him of reading the 
poem to a friend, and how she was touched by it. “ I would 
like to see your friend who is so sympathetic,” said he, and 
then I showed him your picture. “A good face,” he re- 
marked, as he gave the picture back. You have so many 
compliments that you will not mind the comparative poverty 
of this one, will you ? 

“ A good face ! ” He does not know how good ; he never 
can. And the heart under it — that is so far better I grow 
more and more conscious how unworthy I am of it. Love me, 
darling, and so hold me close to purity and truth. I have 


HIS PRISON BARS. 


156 

already found that life here is not quite life at home, and that 
a man can easily go astray. Perhaps, if I had not your love, I 
might be in peril. As it is, I have no fear. You do love me ! 
You must. Such love as mine would compel your Idve, in re- 
turn. In this belief I trust, and in this trust I am 

Always yours, John. 

Month after month went by. Our proud army, en- 
camped around Washington, drilled and waited and 
waited and drilled. The country looked on expectantly, 
while that black cloud of Disunion grew blacker and more 
portentous. Mail routes were burdened with letters from 
those at home to those in the tents, from those in the 
tents to those at home. Newspaper correspondents had 
little to write of except the incidents of camp life, the ru- 
mors of an advance, or the political and military gossip 
which were always abundant. It was, in fact, a tiresome 
autumn, and a most thoroughly unsatisfactory winter. 
The army liked such inaction as little as did the country. 

Geraldine wrote often to John — long chatty letters, 
which did much to relieve the dull routine of the days. 
She wrote as she talked, with an easy pleasantness, which 
charmed. And she was earnest as well as gossipy. In 
unobtrusive ways she said much that helped him. So 
quietly that he scarcely noticed it, she held him not a 
little in an atmosphere of her own faith and feeling. Yet 
she did not often speak plainly of her one great wish — 
that he would learn to love the Saviour she so fully 
trusted. She feared to. weary him of religious thought; 
and so her main desire spent itself in prayer. 

Hope, too, wrote frequently, calling him her soldier- 
brother, and telling everything of interest pertaining to 
Liscomb and the people there. Burley also sent numer- 
ous letters, and John saw that his old friend was growing 
into a strong, earnest young manhood, content with 


AT THE FRONT 


157 

quieter walks than he would have felt satisfied in, but 
always true and sincere. Burley was still a tutor in the 
academy, and still made his home with Mrs. Bremm. 

Those weary years of war ! I have no wish to sadden 
my story with their details. Neither could I write as 
intelligently of them as of some other things, did I so 
wish. Of active service I saw nothing. While Bremm 
was at the front, writing his brilliant letters for print, and 
sharing in the glory of our dear old flag, I patiently 
worked on in Baylan. It is true that my work had always 
to do with the army, or with such part of it as our State 
sent out, and that I was in constant intercourse with 
army officers, and so felt a closeness of sympathy with 
military affairs which the mass could not feel. It is true 
that John wrote me often, and that I watched his course 
with more than my former interest in him. But of much 
of his life I was ignorant — his every-day being and 
doing, I mean. I know that he chafed under the dull- 
ness and discipline of the camp ; I am as confident that 
what so many indulged in to relieve these, he did not 
wholly shun. He was naturally no worse in his tenden- 
cies than the average — perhaps rather better, but he 
had lively spirits, warm social disposition, active im- 
pulses ; and he lacked that strong principle, stayed up 
and made stronger by abiding Christian faith, which 
alone can hold a man pure and unsullied amid impurity 
and sin. 

When McClellan moved in his campaign upon the 
Peninsula, General Bremm’s command found out what 
war really was. Along the banks of the Chickahominy, 
they met suffering, disease and death. They fought 
rebels, not alone, but the malaria of the swamps. There 
was not merely the hard fare of life in the field, but of 
constant and extreme exposure. They were in peril more 


HIS PRISON BARS. 


158 

perilous than that of the sword. No wonder they sick- 
ened and died, so many of them. No wonder they re- 
joiced at every opportunity to give battle. Was it not 
better to die bravely by the bullet, than to waste slowly 
away with disease ? 

In one of his letters to Geraldine, just after the cam- 
paign commenced, John said : “ I begin to see what 
war means. It is not a pleasant thing, darling. It hurts 
sorely, wherever it touches. • It is terribly sad. But I 
shall come through all right, I feel certain. I first saw 
fighting yesterday, and it seems likely I shall see enough 
of it for days to come. Our troops fought splendidly. 
Silvers does n’t know what fear is. He goes anywhere, 
with a perfect recklessness. I try to be careful of myself, 
for your sake.” 

To me he said, about the same date : “ It is a bad 
business. Our poor fellows are sacrificed in every way. 
If you never hear from me again, old fellow, do not think 
it strange. I may go as so many are going, within a 
week. I have told you about Silvers ? If he does n’t 
get winged in the next fight, it will be almost a miracle. 
He is the veriest dare-devil ever I saw.” 

The battle of Fair Oaks was begun on the last day of 
May, and ended June ist, and a terrible struggle it was. 
For nearly a month afterward the Federal forces lay 
along the sluggish Chickahominy, patiently besieging 
Richmond, which was but a few miles away. Then came 
that week of disastrous struggling, in which McClellan 
sought to change his base of supplies, and fought sangui- 
.nary battles each day of his retreat. An awful week it 
was, as we all remember. Day after day the papers were 
full of dispatches, telling how our men were fighting 
nobly, grandly and gloriously, yet were continually falling 
back. Day after day we were in a fever of expectancy, 


AT THE FRONT. 


159 

fearful of the worst. The eyes of the whole country were 
turned to that wretched region of the Chickahominy 
swamps, where men fought as if there and then was to 
be decided the final fate of their own. 

General Bremm’s brigade was one of those which suf- 
fered most. Every regiment in it was sadly cut up. The 
field officers dwindled down to a fourth of their original 
number, and there were hardly enough properly to com- 
mand the handful of men left for action. Through it all, 
though, the general and his staff escaped harm. It was 
wonderful that they did go through engagement on en- 
gagement thus safely, for General Bremm was invariably 
with his men where battle raged hottest, and each one of 
the staff took pride in emulating his example. It seemed 
as if they all courted danger. In more than one report 
they were handsomely mentioned for gallantry, and very 
deservedly mentioned, too. 

One of the last days of that sickening struggle came. 
It found officers and men worn out with fighting and 
fatigue. They had not slept ; scarcely had they eaten. 
They were well-nigh completely broken down. The air 
was thick with cannon-smoke, and almost stifling. The 
summer sun burned fiercer than ever upon all. 

John felt an indefinable sense of danger, as the engage- 
ment opened. For a little time it oppressed and troubled 
him. 

“ Silvers,” he said, speaking to his comrade, “ I am 
going to be hit, to-day.” 

Silvers looked at him", doubtfully. 

■ “ Do you believe in presentiments then ? ” he asked. 

“ I don’t know much about them, as a general thing,” 
John answered. “ But something tells me my turn is 
near.” 

“ I ’ve been feeling that way myself, all the morning,” 
rejoined Silvers. 


l6o HIS PRISON BARS. 

“ About me ? ” 

“ No j about myself. But I felt just so the first battle 
we were in, and nothing came of it. I guess we ’ll pull 
through now.” 

“ If I don’t — if I am unlucky ” — 

John hesitated. 

“ Well — any message ? ” 

“ I ’d like you to write Miss Fay the for me. She ’ll 
want to know.” 

As John said this, his uncle rode up with a message, 
and a moment later they were all again facing death. It 
was one of the wildest, terriblest days of all the seven. 
Men were mowed down like worthless grain. They 
charged, and fled, and charged again. Despite fatigue, 
and a scorching heat, and the constant bringing up by 
the enemy of fresh troops, they fought as men seldom 
fought before. The valor that one day witnessed was 
enough for a whole nation’s history. Throughout the 
long, varying hours. General Bremm held his shattered 
regiments bravely in hand, never yielding position except 
as ordered, and for them and himself winning glory. In 
this his active aids had full share. 

It was not until toward night-fall that either general or 
staff was hit. The first to suffer was General Bremm. 
He was leading the remnant of his brigade across an 
open field, to support the right which was in danger of 
being hurled back upon the centre disastrously. A ball 
struck him in the side, inflicting an ugly flesh wound, and 
unsaddling him at once. Silvers and John rushed to 
his aid. 

“Never mind me, boys,” he said. “Go with the men.” 

But they helped him to the foot of a tree near by, and 
would care for him, even against his protest. As they 
and others gathered round him, a shell from a Confeder- 


AT THE FRONT l6l 

ate battery came hurtling over the group, and exploded 
just beyond. The group scattered as they heard its 
shriek, but too late. A piece of the shell struck John in 
the thigh, and prostrated him. Another piece knocked 
Silvers senseless, and when he came to his senses again, 
as he did soon after dark, he could see nothing of the 
general or of John. Rousing up, he found that the tide 
of battle had somehow changed, and that here about him 
there were only the dying and the dead. In the dim twi- 
light every object was magnified to twice its usual size, 
and a ghostly company it was that he saw round about* 
Here, a gun caisson lay, half wrecked ; there, a horse and 
his rider had fallen, never to rise again ; on either hand 
were stiff, gory corpses, their weapons clasped tightly in 
their grasp, some in the attitude of prayer, as if they died 
piously, others with scowls upon their faces, as if breath- 
ing hatred and defiance to the last. 

Staggering slowly to his feet. Silvers discovered a form 
near, that he fancied might be John. He tried to raise it 
to a sitting position, but had not strength. In the dim- 
ness he but dimly saw the face, and besides, he was yet 
partially dazed by the blow that had laid him senseless a 
while before. 

“ It ’s Bremm, sure enough,” he said. “ Poor fellow ! ” 
and the tears fell. 

Off on the left he heard the movements of troops, and 
turning sadly, he slowly picked his way in that direction. 
Every step cost him a pang. He grew sicker and sicker 
at heart, each instant. “ O God 1 ” he said at last, in 
very agony, “ how long must this wicked work go on t ” 

Ten minutes later he was with our troops, where they 
had established their lines for the night, and was making 
diligent inquiries for General Bremm. He found him, 
finally, in a hospital tent. He had been brought off the 


i62 


ms PRISON BARS. 


field by his men, and though weak from loss of blood, 
was likely to recover. 

“ A hard day for us Silvers,” said the general. “ Were 
you hit, too ? ” 

“Only a scalp wound, that stunned me for a while. 
But John ” — 

He stopped, unable to go on. 

“ Where is he ? ” the general asked. 

“ Dead on the field, poor fellow ! ” 

“ Are you sure ? ” 

“ I left him only an hour ago. That ugly shell did the 
business.” 

“ Poor boy ! ” the general sighed. “ He fought well, 
and was sure of promotion, as you are. Could not the 
body be brought in ? ” 

“.I will see,” and Captain Silvers went on his painful 
errand. 

Three days later he wrote the following letter : — 

Harrison’s Landing, Jzdy 3, 1862. 

Miss Geraldine Faythe, — I have' sad news to communi- 
cate. Our dear friend John Bremm has met the fate of the 
battle-field, after going unharmed through many fights. If he 
were seriously wounded it would be less painful for me to 
write of it, but the case is worse than that. He was killed by 
the bursting of a shell, which also injured several others. I 
was knocked senseless, and when I came to I found him near 
by, dead. An hour later I went back for his body, to bring it 
within the lines, but though we searched a long time we could 
not find it. I suppose we missed the place, as the rebels fired 
upon us constantly if we showed a light, and we could not 
search carefully and thoroughly. It can hardly be possible 
that he was also knocked insensible, as I was, and had recov- 
ered and made his way from the spot before we reached it. 
I wish it were, for I would like to give you a little hope if I 
could. 


yIT THE FRONT. 


163 

Lieutenant Bremm was a good soldier, and a man of the 
finest and most companionable nature. I loved him, and as I 
write this I cannot repress the tears which will start at the 
memory of his many rare qualities, and the thought that I 
shall never see him more. He was robed in glory before he 
died, and with hundreds ’of other noble fellows earned a glo- 
rious fame. I am very sincerely yours, 

Jerome B. Silvers. 

Among the published list of badly wounded, which the 
whole country read about the same date, appeared the 
names of General Israel Bremm and Captain J. B. Sil- 
vers ; and the long array of missing included Lieutenant 
John Bremm. 


164 


HIS PRISON BARS. 


CHAPTER XXXIV. 

“ MISSING.” 

How closely Geraldine Faythe watched the newspapers, 
through those eventful days, many of you will realize 
more perfectly than I can tell. There were columns on 
columns of telegraphic dispatches from the front, in al- 
most every issue. They teemed with sad stories of dis- 
aster and death. They told of victory, often, but they 
gave, also, its terrible cost. Geraldine read them always 
with a shudder, and an after prayer for John. He was 
in peril daily, she knew, lightly as he wrote her concern- 
ing it; she feared the worst continually. Nothing but 
full trust in God kept her cheerful and hopeful, I had 
almost said happy. 

It was a dreadful strain upon us all, while those Penin- 
sular movements were going on. Not until we read that 
McClellan’s whole army was safely resting upon the 
James, after that heroic contest at Malvern Hills, did we 
breathe freely once more. His whole army, did I say ? 
If it only had been thus ! But along the Chickahominy’s 
fatal banks, and through its death-breathing swamps, 
were strewn hundreds who would never rally to the ranks 
again — hundreds whose lives had reached out widely to 
the tender touching of other lives; whose death was 
briefest pain for them, but pain slow and enduring for 
thousands of the living — brave men and true, 

“ Who sudden rank in glory won 
Because they fought so well ! ” 


* MISSING. 


165 

Thousands more were wounded and sick, and were left 
behind to fall into an enemy’s hands, and drag out months 
of wretchedness inside prison walls, or waste slowly 
away in some obscure spot on the field where they fell, 
dying by inches of hunger and neglect. Of this latter 
number, mainly, were the “missing.” 

When Miss Faytheread John’s name in the “missing ” 
list, as she did before Captain Silvers’ letter came, she 
did not faint, or cry out, or in any marked way manifest 
the sudden grief which smote her. She sat in a state of 
half suspense, seeing nothing of the cruel letters which 
spelled so cruel a blow, but frightened and benumbed. 
Her rather thin, clean-cut lips pressed close together, as 
of their own will keeping back expression, and smother- 
ing the hurt. 

I had taken her the paper which contained the list — 
one of the great dailies of Metropolisville, which I thought 
she would not be likely to see. She had scanned the 
line of names partly through, with no word from me ex- 
cept a hint that it might interest her. When she spoke, 
it was very quietly. 

“ Are missing men often heard from ? ” she asked. 

“ Oh, yes,” I answered. 

“ What becomes of them, generally ? ” 

“ Sometimes they are taken prisoners, and not properly 
reported ? generally they are ” 

I stopped, involuntarily, for she was looking at me with 
such an anxious look in those marvelous eyes of hers as T 
shall never forget. She finished the sentence for me in- 
terrogatively — 

“Killed?” 

“ Yes.” 

“ And do you think it likely our friend Mr. Bremm is a 
prisoner ? ” she asked after a moment’s silence. 


HIS PRISON BARS. 


1 66 

“ He may be. We may certainly hope that he is. He 
has been very fortunate thus far ; I have a feeling that 
he will come out all right now.” 

“ I think he will,” she said, and the anxious look had 
given way to one of trust. 

A week later I called upon her again. I had hoped to 
bear some definite news to her j it had not occurred to me 
that she might have heard anything from John direct. 
To my thinking Bremm was either killed or a prisoner ; 
but which ? 

She met me, as she always met her friends, with a 
cheerful cordiality, but I saw evidences of suffering in her 
face, and wished at once that I had kept away. She 
might think I had come with good news, I fancied, and 
be only disappointed. I spoke without delay. 

“ We get no word from Lieutenant Bremm,” said I, at 
the Capitol. He must have been taken prisoner, singly, 
and may not be heard from in a long time.” 

“ I have heard from him.” She spoke hesitatingly, but i 
without showing emotion. “ You know the relations 
which existed between Mr. Bremm and myself — you may I 
read this ; ” and she handed me the letter of Captain 
Silvers. j 

As I read it, my own eyes filled. 

“ When did it come ? ” I asked, my voice, a trifle un- 
steady, perhaps, for I, too, liked John. 

“ Two or three days ago.” She spoke a little weariedly 
now, as if the time had been longer than her answer sig- 
nified. 

I could not speak again. I knew not what to say. If 
she had been his wife, I might have found some word of 
comfort. 

“ Do you believe he is dead ? ” she asked, presently. 
The question was abrupt and searching, but I answered 
it truthfully. 


M/SS/JVGJ 


67 


“ It seems there can be no doubt about it.” 

“ Yet I have a doubt, somehow,” she said. “He may- 
have come to his senses, after Captain Silvers left him 
there for dead, as the letter hints, and I cannot help be- 
lieving that he did.” 

For myself, I had no such hope ; neither had I any 
wish to destroy hers. 

“ You know we have talked of answers to prayer,” she 
went on to say. “ I think this feeling I have comes as 
an answer. I have prayed about Mr. Bremm,” — she 
spoke low and with her peculiar earnestness, — “ and I 
have felt a sort of certainty about him.” 

“ Did not this letter shake your faith a little ? ” I asked. 

“Yes, a little, at the first. By and by I began to think 
God might have permitted the letter just to test my faith, 
and now I really believe that was so. We shall hear from 
our friend ; I am as positive of it as I am that you sit 
there.” 

And I went my way, wishing I might rest always in so 
complete a trust as blessed and beautified this girl’s life. 

The first news they received at Liscomb, concerning 
John, was in shape of a brief letter from General Bremm 
to the young man’s mother, telling the same sad story 
which had been told to Geraldine Faythe. Unlike the 
letter of Silvers, however, it gave no hint of possible es- 
cape, and therefore it came upon Mrs. Bremm as an abso- 
lute, awful fact. 

Burley was not near when the letter was put into her 
hand, and so she went straight to Mr. Hensell’s. 

“ I knew it would be so ! ” she declared, breaking ab- 
ruptly in upon Mrs. Hensell and Hope. “ I expected 
it ! ” and she fell to weeping bitterly. 

“ What is it ? ” inquired her mother. “ Is it John ? ” 

‘‘ Yes — he ’s — killed ” — said Mrs. Bremm, speaking 


i68 


HIS PRISON BARS. 


between hysterical sobs. “I — knew — it would — be so. 
And — he was — all — I had.” 

Hope felt a sharp, sudden pain at her heart, and for an 
instant everything swam before her sight. Was he not 
all she had, too } came the question, in her quick agony. 

“ What have you heard ? ” she asked, a moment later. 

Mrs. Bremm gave her the general’s letter, which she 
read slowly as she might have read a warrant of death. 
Then Mrs. Hensell also perused it, and afterward essayed 
a bit of comfort to the stricken mother, whose grief now 
had overrun her habit of complaint, and made her, for 
once, voiceless. And while the two women sat there to- 
gether — the one in a passion of sorrow w^hich whelmed 
her completely, and the other weeping alike for sympathy 
and regret — Hope slipped quietly olf to the solitude of 
her room, where she gave herself up to grieving that she 
felt to be sacred. 

In the days which followed, Hope rather cherished her 
grief, than sought to put it one side. It seemed to her 
somehow, that in thus lamenting her friend she was more 
loyal to herself than she had of late been. She had reso- 
lutely fought against the old regard for him, and had fan- 
cied such effort in a degree successful. Living, he be- 
longed to another, and she had no right to think of him 
tenderly. Dead, he was no more another’s than hers, and 
she could think of him as tenderly as ever she had done, 
and without sense of wrong. So she robed him for his 
burial in a vestment of love, and wet it with her tears ; 
and in his death to her he was resurrected into a newness 
of life for her like that which memory has so often kept 
fresh and green until the very end. 


A NIGHT IN AN AMBULANCE. 


169 


CHAPTER XXXV 

A NIGHT IN AN AMBULANCE. 

It was an ugly wound that John had received, and it 
let the blood out freely, at first, — so freely that he fainted, 
and lay some time unconscious. He recovered conscious- 
ness, however, before Captain Silvers did, and looked for 
his commander, whom he could not find. Not knowing 
Silvers had been likewise hit, he made no further search, 
but essayed to drag himself back within the lines. It was 
slow, painful work. His wound began to bleed afresh, 
and with each step he felt his little remaining strength 
ebbing away. 

Must he lie down again and die ? Not far to the right 
he heard the stir of a camp. Could he reach it ? He 
thought of Geraldine, and nerved himself to effort. ’ 
Slowly, and still more slowly, he plodded on. All the 
ground had been fought over, and was torn up by shot 
and shell, and the repeated evolutions of troops. Every 
thrust of his right foot against an obstacle made him cry 
out or moan. Many a time he stumbled and fell, and 
each fall cost him the agony of death. 

Still he plodded on. Over and over again he was 
tempted to sink down and let the end come, soon as it 
would. But with each temptation came a renewal of will. 
He would not yield. 

It seemed the longest, weariest time. It would have 


HIS PRISON BARS. 


170 

been longer, wearier yet, if one of the picket guard had 
not seen him, dragging slowly along, and gone to his re- 
lief. Perhaps he would have failed, even at the very last, 
but for this. The friendly soldier helped him to a bit of 
wall close by, and gave him his canteen. 

“ You were hard hit, lieutenant,” said the man. 

“ Yes. A piece of shell struck me here,” and he 
pointed to the wound. 

“ Have you lost your regiment ? ” 

“ I am one of General Bremm’s aids. The general 
was wounded, and then that brutish shell came for us all. 
I don’t know what became of the rest. What can I do, 
now ? I can’t travel any farther,” and he moaned again 
with the pain. 

“ There is an ambulance coming down the road yon- 
der,” said the man. “ Perhaps you can get into that.” 

The road passed near where they were, and as the 
army wagon arrived opposite, the driver was challenged, 
and stopped. 

“ Where are you going ? ” asked the guard, after the 
formal salutations. 

“To the James,” the driver answered, with the Irish 
accent predominant. “ An’ a divil uv a march we ’re to 
have uv it, shure. Sivinteen mile if it ’s a fut, an’ the 
corderoy ’ll make it twinty-five. In the night, too, by the 
Holy Mary ! Doan ’t ye keep me here ; there ’s the in- 
toire ambullance corpus behint me.” 

“But can’t you take in a staff officer?” the guard 
questioned, as the driver began urging up his mules* 
“ He ’s badly wounded, and can’t be left here.” 

“ An’ is it hurted he is ? ” the sympathetic son of Erin 
inquired. “ Nary a bit will I drive an impty ambullance 
away from the inemy when I can pick up sich a passen- 
ger as that, ye know. Show me the b’y.” 


A NIGHT IN AN AMBULANCE. 


I71 

Lieutenant Bremm had come forward, as they talked. 

“ Here ’s to ye, colonel,’’ said the teamster. “ An’ bad 
luck to the wans that shot ye ! Aisy now ! ” and he took 
hold of him with a rough sort of tenderness. “ ’T won’t 
be the purtiest roide iver ye tuk, but mebbe it be better 
than bein’ starved, like, by the ribbuls.” 

They helped John in — not without hurting him sorely 
— and the wagon rolled lumberingly on. For a little 
time he was almost insensible, so great had been the tax 
upon his nervous and physical system. It was, indeed, a 
mercy that gave him this hour or two of semi-unconscious- 
ness. He had suffered already so much and so long, and 
there was still so much to be suffered and endured. 

By and by, as full consciousness returned once more, 
the pain of his wound increased. The road was one of 
the worst in the whole Peninsula, and its roughness 
seemed growing rougher every mile. How long the hours 
were ! Would they never reach the end ? He was tossed 
up and down remorselessly. At every turn or motion of 
his body the quick, darting pains cut him like a knife. 
Often his torture was so great that he screamed out fran- 
tically, while the tears ran freely down his face. 

Thus hours went by. The teamster never ceased to 
urge his team on. The road was narrow, and shut in on 
either side by forest growth ; there was scarcely room for 
one wagon to pass another. Back of this particular wagon 
was a long line of ambulances. Some were empty ; some 
had sick and wounded in them; some were laden with 
stores. The way was dark; the animals were nearly worn 
out ; the teamsters, many of them, were horribly profane. 
The moans of the sick, the occasional cries of the wounded, 
the cracking of whips, the oaths of the drivers, the creak 
and clamor of wheels — all this made up something akin 
to Pandemonium. All this burned into John’s very brain. 


1/2 


HIS PRISON- BARS. 


with the burning fever which came upon him, and would 
never be effaced. 

With the burning fever came also burning thirst. Every 
moan he gave was an inward cry for drink. 

“ For the love of God, comrade,” he said once, when 
the wagon mired in a sink-hole, and suddenly stopped, 
“ give me some water ! ” 

The teamster produced his canteen, and John drained 
it at a draught. 

Still they crept along. They had been a whole night 
on the way already, it seemed. Would morning never 
come? Rougher and rougher the corduroy, to John’s 
sensitiveness. Each breath was a moan. The thirst 
came on again, like a consuming fire. It burned through 
all his veins ; it leaped to his brain, and set him wild with 
delirium. Now he laughed, in mad, mocking laughter, 
that rose above the creak of wheels and the cracking of 
whips, and chilled many a poor fellow’s heart; now he 
prayed — prayed for water, for life, for death; now he 
cursed — madly, wickedly, blasphemously, staining his lips 
with words that had never stained them before ; now he 
cried to Geraldine, in tones that might have made good 
angels weep. 

And still they crept on. Oh, the weary, wretched night, 
long almost as the eternities ! You, who hold no such an 
one in memory, should be very glad. 

God was good to the young man, at last. In place of 
fitful delirium He gave utter unconsciousness. 

“ Poor b’y ! ” said the teamster. “ It ’s clane gone he 
is, intoirely, an’ niver a bit o’ good will the roide do ’im 
at all.” 

Dawn was just streaking the east, when the first of that 
long line of ambulances reached its destination, on the 
bank of the James. It was broad daylight when the 
wagon with its one occupant came to a final stand. 


A NIGHT IN AN AMBULANCE. 173 

“ What have you here ? ” asked an officer, ooking in. 
“ I thought you came empty ? ” 

“ Shure an’ it ’s a poor officer I picked up by the way, 
an’ it ’s dead he is, sur, I ’m thinkin’. Wud yes jist luk 
at ’im, sur, an’ see ? It ’s hurted he was, by the hathen- 
ish ribbuls.” 


174 


HIS PRISON BARS. 


CHAPTER XXXVI. 

THE VILLAGE HERO. 

It was a full month later that the following letter came 
to Geraldine : — 

On THE James, August 2 ., 1862. 

Miss Geraldine Faythe : 

I have good news to communicate. Lieutenant Bremm is 
living, and bids fair to recover. I have just found him here, 
in hospital quarters. He was badly wounded, but was able to 
leave the field, and must have gone before I searched for him. 
A clever teamster brought him through to this point, on the 
night of our retreat, and he was at once placed in hospital. 
He has been very near to death all the time since, being un- 
conscious and delirious up to yesterday, when I chanced to 
find him. He is improving now, his wound is doing well, and 
he seems in fair spirits. He sends his love, and will write 
when he gets sufficiently strong. Meantime I will keep you 
advised of his condition. Very sincerely, etc., 

Jerome B. Silvers. 

Miss Faythe showed me the letter when next I called 
on her. 

“ It is one of my answers,” she said ; and I understood 
what she meant. 

Silvers wrote two or three letters more before John 
could pen anything, and Geraldine came to feel quite ac- 
quainted with him, and wrote him little thankful notes, 
under cover of her long epistles to John, which made him 
rather envy the invalid. 


THE VILLAGE HERO. 


175 


In August John was transferred to a hospital near 
Washington, and thence he wrote to us all. There he 
rapidly recovered strength, but his wound was of such a 
nature that full convalescence must be slow, and a mat- 
ter of time. It was late in the fall, in fact, when he was 
able once more to resume his place upon General Bremm’s 
staff. 

That officer, meanwhile, had been promoted to a ma- 
jor-generalship, and was in command of a division. Sil- 
vers wore the major’s gold leaf on his shoulder-straps, and 
was the general’s chief adjutant. John ranked as cap- 
tain, and was likely to rise much higher. He came home 
on a brief furlough, the next winter. A fine-looking fel- 
low he was truly, in his soldier’s dress. I should have 
been thoroughly proud of him, as a friend, if he had not 
accepted and returned so many invitations to drink. At 
the Capitol, during a legislative session, one was con- 
stantly beset with these, and few young men regularly re- 
sisted them. 

John went to Liscomb, after a day or two in Baylan, 
and tarried briefly. It was a hard trial for Hope. The 
month in which he had been dead to his family and 
friends, he had been more completely alive to her than 
for a long time before. Very tenderly, very lovingly had 
she thought of him. All he had been to her in the ear- 
lier days of her affection he had been again in sweet re- 
newal. When came the news of his escape, she was in a 
conflict of feeling such as few, perhaps, have experienced. 
That he still lived, she was sincerely glad. That she had 
wronged herself in so warmly remembering him, she>> 
knew, and regretted. Now that she must meet him, and 
did meet him, she was “in a strait betwixt two” — her 
joy and her regret. 

John never could know what an effort it cost her to 


HIS PRISON BARS. 


176 

receive his calls, to be with him as heretofore, to talk 
with him in the free, frank, sisterly way he liked so well. 
But Hope was strong : she could bear much, and she did. 
She was unselfish ; she could give largely and not feel it 
a sacrifice. So she gave of company and sympathy, and 
John accepted all, glad that she felt for him only a sister's 
regard, as he believed, and happy in her manifest pleas- 
ure at his return. 

The young officer was a good deal of a hero, in the lit- 
tle village. Why not ? He had been honorably men- 
tioned more than once, for gallant conduct in battle ; he 
had been left for dead upon the field ; his obituary had 
been printed in “The Telescope,” in such terms as would . 
satisfy almost any man who looked for satisfaction in that 
way. He had written brilliant letters from the front, 
which had been praised by editors and enjoyed by the 
people. He was in a desirable position on the staff of a 
popular general, and was surely a rising young man. 

Nearly all of John’s friends praised and petted him, 
and it was well that he had a good stock of common-sense, 
else so much of flattery would have ruined him for use- 
ful work. Even his mother was partly reconciled to his 
going away, and scolded less about it than he supposed 
she would. It was not so hard for him to go again as at 
first. It was not the first time. The newness of such 
an experience had passed by. In some degree, at least, 
he had become hardened to pain, and the pain of parting 
was not so keen. He had been close to death, and was 
yet with the living. He knew that in the very next fight, 
perhaps, he might fall, but had become rather indifferent 
to the knowledge. ©To men who daily face it, danger is 
not what it is to the novice. 

The hardest task was taking leave of Geraldine once 
more. She was very human, with all her great trust in 


THE VILLAGE HERO. 


177 

God. She had the strongest human love. She poured 
it all out upon John. In her sight he stood next to Him 
unto whom she prayed. If she feared for him, as she so 
often did, she yet believed in him. She respected him. 
She looked up to him. His talents, his gifts, his noble- 
ness, she magnified and was proud of. She believed he 
would win fame and honor ; and yet she could not bear 
to give him up again. The letting him go was like let- 
ting go of life itself. 

12 


178. 


HIS PRISON BARS. 


CHAPTER XXXVII. 

ON THE STUMP. 

Those sober years of war went by. They seem brief 
now, in the retrospect j they were long enough then. 
Long enough to rob many a home of its joy, many a life 
of its hope, many a form of its vigor and beauty. Long 
enough to make reputations and lose them, to crown men 
with popular homage and then trample them in the dust. 
Long enough to waste blood like water, to spend treasure 
untold, to weary the hearts of all. 

Before the end came Major Silvers had won his star as 
a brigadier-general, and Captain John Bremm wore the 
colonel’s eagle. Both escaped further injury, by the 
same rare good fortune that had attended them, with one 
exception, from the first. They were all the time in 
active service, but less exposed, on the staff of a division 
commander, than formerly. 

John came home several times more before peace was 
achieved. He was always in capital spirits — the same 
jovial, clever fellow he had ever been. His successes had 
not made him vain. 

“ I ’ve been very lucky,” he said to me, on his last fur- 
lough. “I shall come through this business all right, 
and shall have accumulated a snug little sum with which 
to commence somewhere for myself. When the war is 
over I shall marry, and settle down. I begin to want a 
home.” 


ON THE STUMP. 


179 


‘‘ What will you go into ? ” I asked. 

“ I ’d take to journalism in Metropolisville,” he an- 
swered, “ if I fancied playing second fiddle long enough. 
As it is, I shall buy a country paper, in some large vil- 
lage, or a part interest in some small city establishment. 
The general wants me to buy into ‘ The Bugle Blast,’ in 
Ossoli, and perhaps I will. I ’ve an idea he would like 
to be governor, by and by.” 

“ And you will incline to politics, too, I suppose,” said I. 

He laughed. 

Maybe so,” was his answer. “ I am not devoid of 
ambition, and out of war into politics, you know. There ’s 
no other field for popular success.” 

“ You like success, then ? ” 

“ Of course. Any man does. It ’s rather a question 
with me, though, as to what kind of success will best 
please me. I like literary endeavor so well that I am 
almost tempted to work solely for success in that. But 
it comes slow, and it is too quiet for one who has led the 
life I have led. It is not exactly like live contact with 
men, I fancy. I am about persuaded that I will edit a 
smart daily paper, in some stirring little city like Ossoli, 
and one of these days go to Congress.” 

He spoke lightly, and with a laugh, but I saw that he 
was considerably in earnest, notwithstanding. 

“ We soldiers are going to have the inside track, when 
we come back,” he continued. “ We shall win as citizens, 
as we have won upon the field. Success there will 
give us success here. That ’s the way the general rea- 
sons,” referring to his uncle, “and he’s commonly right.” 

Events proved such reasoning true. Our victorious 
troops came home, and the country bowed to them loyally. 
They had conquered a peace ; and we who were, with 
them, to enjoy the fruits thereof, could not feel too grate- 


i8o , 


HIS PRISON BARS. 


ful. The tattered banners they brought back to us were 
more eloquent than words. 

John bought a controlling interest in “The Bugle 
Blast,” at Ossoli, his uncle supplying what funds he had 
not already at hand, and after a few weeks of rest and 
recreation he settled squarely down to work. He came 
to Baylan often, and on one of his visits I had the pleas- 
ure of handing him a commission as brigadier-general by 
brevet, one of a large honorary batch some time de- 
layed. 

“Not of much use to you now,” I remarked of the 
parchment. 

“ No,” he said. “ All that is gone by. I feel already 
as if it were a long way off. This will be suggestive, 
though, and I will hang it up in my home — when I get 
one.” 

“ How soon ? ” I inquired, significantly. 

“ Next Christmas,” he replied. “ Miss Faythe can’t be 
ready until then.” 

In the fall General Bremm was nominated for gov- 
ernor, and a lively canvass we fiad, all through the State. 
John entered it spiritedly, and with a determination to 
cancel some of the large debt of obligation he felt due. 
His uncle had really made him what he was, it seemed to 
him, and he was willing, even anxious, to do him service. 
He labored not only through his paper, but upon the 
stump. With fine natural gifts as an orator, his record 
and his enthusiasm told strongly with men. He rapidly 
developed a certain vim and dash which pleased the peo- 
ple, and gave him popularity at once. His candidate 
won. Israel Bremm was elected governor by an immense 
majority. But at what cost ? 

More than once John Bremm was helped to his room, 
after an enthusiastic meeting, and a hilarious hour sue- 


ON THE STUMP. 


l8l 

ceeding, in a state bordering upon helpless intoxication. 
Of course he must drink. He could not mingle con- 
stantly with men of politics and always decline. He must 
maintain his popularity. He must court the favor of 
many whom at heart he despised. Such were his excuses, 
when his keen sense of respectableness and taste some- 
times made protest. He had long since outgrown any 
real allegiance to principle, in this relation. He had per- 
suaded himself that occasional drinking held no harm ; 
that only drunkenness was a thing especially bad, and to 
be shunned. 

Yet he had never overcome that intuitive feeling which 
made him keep Geraldine ignorant of his moderate indul- 
gence. How it was that she never suspected it, I cannot 
say ; probably her implicit faith in his nobleness is suffi- 
cient explanation. How she heard of it, at last, or just 
what she heard, I never asked. How she felt, and what 
she thought, this letter shows : — 

Baylan, lo, 1865. 

My Dear Friend, — Your last letter was so happy and 
hopeful, and so full of glad expectation, and this of mine must 
be so very painful, you may almost think it unkind. But it is 
not that ; I should only be unkind to you, and unkind to my- 
self, not to write it. I have been a great while bringing my- 
self to say what I must say, now. I cannot tell you how much 
I have prayed over it, and how many, many times I have asked 
God to show me just what was right in his sight. For if I were 
to take counsel of my own will and wish alone, I might keep 
silent, and let it all go on. 

You must know, since you believe in my love, that I have 
anticipated our union with as much of desire, perhaps, as you 
have anticipated it, I have longed to be so much more to you 
than now I can be — a hope and a help in your every day. I 
have wanted so much your help and your sympathy, con- 
stantly. It is not unmaidenly to say this, I trust. And I 


i 82 


HIS PRISON BARS. 


would not willingly delay the day of that union we have each 
looked forward to. But, darling, — let me say it with my cheek 
against yours, — I am afraid. I am afraid to do what God 
would see to be a wrong. 

You have been in great temptation, I know, and my heart 
finds for you a thousand excuses I cannot write down. You 
have not thought it dangerous to drink a little intoxicating 
liquor. You have simply done as you were led to do by force 
of circumstances. You have never even thought enough about 
it to mention it to me. But right here is the great danger of 
it all. Men have gone on just so thoughtlessly, and I shudder 
to think how they died. Do not you shudder, too ? 

I do not believe you are so weak as to become a drunkard, 
when once you stop and think, and I have no idea you have 
yet formed a habit which is so very strong you cannot over- 
come it. It is to cause you to think, and not form the habit, 
that I have written this. But I have hinted of a postpone- 
ment of our marriage. Yes — and this is my reason for mak- 
ing the postponement. You have so often indulged in drink, 
and have so lately been often under its influence, that it may 
cost an effort for you to put it aside. My love is as strong for 
you as ever, but yet I want you to take time to conquer your 
appetite, if it has become an appetite, before we take any other 
vows upon us. Do not think I doubt you, darling, because I say 
this ; it is only, as I have already stated, that I fear to do what 
might be a great wrong. 

You will not love me any less now, will you ? If I thought 
you might, it would add sadly to the pain I feel as it is. And 
that is so deep that I think you must taste the tears upon my 
face while I now give you the good-night kiss. 


Geraldine. 


GERALDINE FAYTHE'S DECISION. 


I8 


CHAPTER XXXVIII. 

GERALDINE FAYTHE’s DECISION. 

John’s feeling, as he read the letter, was one of mingled 
shame, humiliation, resentment, and remorse. That Ger- 
aldine had come to know of his occasional yieldings 
shamed him. That he had fallen below his former place 
in her trust was humiliating to him. That she could 
thus, for no very serious reason, put him in any degree 
further from her, he was inclined to resent. And finally, 
that he had done aught which should bring about this 
result filled him with remorse. 

At first he was moved to proceed directly to Baylan, 
and seek a personal interview, but shame kept him from 
that. It was a whole day before he could even write to 
her. Here is what he wrote : — 

OssOLi, Nove7)iber 15, 1865. 

My Darling, — What can I say? Your letter is like a 
blow. It hits my love and my pride. I had not dreamed of 
ever receiving such an one. I thought you trusted me, and 
would trust me always. I confess I have erred a little ; but 
not enough, I am sure, to merit the penalty you inflict. Some 
one must have exaggerated. I have at times drank rather too 
much, but never except I was led along by circumstances I 
could not control. You do not think I am a drunkard, I hope ? 
That I could never be, because I do not naturally like liquor, 
and I have too much self-respect. My love for you, if nothing 
else, would keep me from that. 

Then why should our marriage be postponed ? Your con- 


ins PRISON BARS. 


184 

stant companionship would do a great deal to counteract the 
damaging influences with which I am often surrounded ; have 
you really any right to withhold what you can give ? I will 
promise anything in return — will even sign the pledge, if you 
insist upon it ; which should satisfy you entirely, should it 
not ? 

My darling, I want you so ! Think of it, please. These 
years of battling and hardship I have had no home save in 
your love and confldence. The love I have yet ; give me still 
the confidence and we shall be happy and blessed together. I 
have been so long amid influences questionable, that it would 
not be strange if now I looked more lightly upon some things 
than you do ; and this is one of the reasons why I want you. 
Your letters have done more for me than I can tell ; but your 
daily life would do so very much more even than these ! Can 
you deprive me of an aid to the better purposes I would be 
glad to live out into form and experience ? 

No, darling;' let it all go on. You shall have no further 
cause of complaint.' For your sake I will say “ No ! ” to every 
invitation to drink. For your sake I would and will do what- 
ever might give you pleasure — anything but accept the pen- 
alty of waiting which you have imposed. This is not for your 
pleasure ; I am convinced I can make you happier as your 
husband than you will be with months more of delay between 
'US. Give up the idea of penance, then, and let me be wholly 
yours. ' John. 

The letter did not suit him, when finished, but he sent 
it on, and throughout the week afterward he looked 
eagerly for a reply. When it came it read thus : — 

I Baylan, November 22, 1865. 

Dear Heart, — If your letter had been just an argument, 
I could have answered it at once. ' But you see it was an ap- 
peal, and my own heart heard it so'sympathizingly that I had 
to stop and ask God. 

The answer is what the other was — it would not be right. 


GERALDINE FAVTHE’S DECISION 1 85 

If love were my only counsel, I presume I should consent to 
marry you as you might choose, but this question is one in 
which love does not stand alone. When you and I wed, as I 
fully expect some time we may, we must do it solemnly, with 
God’s blessing upon us. I have thought about this a great 
deal, of late, and I am convinced that God ordains perfect so- 
briety to be an essential condition to the marriage state. I 
have seen so much of the wretchedness of drink, in the poor 
homes I visit week by week, that I cannot believe otherwise. 

I wish you could have been with me the other afternoon, in 
one of my rounds. I found a couple who were both half drunk 

— a man and his wife. It was very little I could do for them, 
but the next morning early I went round again, so as to find 
them sober, if I could. The man was gone (to get his usual 
dram, I suppose) but the woman was home, and had slept off 
the effects of drink. It was a pitiful story she told me, so 
pitiful I cried as she told it. I am crying again now, as it 
comes back to me. It is too long to write down here, but this 
sums it up : she had once been a happy bride — as I hope to 
be. Her husband was noble and good, with prospects fair as 
most men have. He took to drink, and rapidly sank. Trouble 
came, and he sank lower and lower still. The wife suffered 
as so many poor women do suffer, and finally she took to drink, 
too, that she might forget. 

Oh, my dear friend ! the drink is an unholy thing, and an 
offense against God. You have promised me now to let it 
alone altogether, for I do, I must insist upon this ; and when 
you have been so long an abstainer that there can be no dan- 
ger, I shall gladly place my life where my heart long has been 

— in your keeping. But until you do this — hard as the pain 
is to say it — I must wait. You have talents with which to 
do a great deal of good, and by means of which you will 
surely become a strong example for good or bad. When we 
begin our married life I should almost die of grief if that ex- 
ample were not strongly for good, and I am certain that the 
man who sometimes drinks that which can intoxicate, even 
though he may never be intoxicated, cannot be such an exem- 
plar as he ought. 


HIS PRISON BARS. 


I 86 

I am not attempting to argue the question, dear heart. I 
am just hinting at a few truths which you can turn into argu- 
ments, if you will. But spite of hints or arguments, or occa- 
sion for either, I love you, as I ever must. You know this, 
you will always know it. One of these days, not so very 
far distant, I shall prove it to you morning, noon, and night, 
and you will know how fully and unalterably I am your 

Geraldine. 

John Bremm was naturally fair-minded and reasonable, 
and yet he chafed somewhat under the position this letter 
assumed. He had been foolish, he was willing to admit. 
He had not been in real danger; there was no danger 
now. Geraldine was carrying her idea of right and duty 
too far. But for all this, he loved her, and he could not 
avoid feeling an increase of that respect he had so long 
held for her purity of motive, and her strong conscien- 
tiousness. And knowing how firmly she stood by what 
she believed duty, he accepted her decision, after a little 
of further remonstrating, and agreed to bide her time. 


WINNING HOPE. 


187 


CHAPTER XXXIX. 

WINNING HOPE. 

Hope Hensell, having thoroughly fitted herself for 
the work, was offered a position in the Normal School at 
Ossoli, as teacher of elocution, and accepted it. She had 
a little battle with herself, first. She knew John was in 
Ossoli, of course. She had conquered her old love for 
him — that she was confident of. But was it best to go 
where she might meet him often ? where there might 
be such frequent reminders of all that had gone by? 
When she began laughing at the question as a foolish 
one, it was settled. To be laughed at, even by one’s self, 
is not a satisfying thing. 

She did meet John frequently. Perhaps she some- 
times felt a little tremor at the heart, hearing his well- 
remembered voice, and thinking, as I am certain she must 
have thought, of their earlier association. She never be- 
trayed any other than the proper sisterly feeling. John 
called upon her often, during the winter that ensued, 
took her out occasionally to a lecture or concert, rees- 
tablished himself, to quite an extent, in his former rela- 
tionship to her. She had grown rather more dignified 
and reserved ; he noticed that. The little familiarities 
of previous years he hardly dared presume upon. 

Hope gave a public reading upon the lecture course, 
before the winter ended. John’s good words, through his 
paper, drew a full house. John felt almost as deep an 


i88 


HIS PRISON BARS. 


interest in her success as she felt, and she was greatly 
indebted to him for the unqualified success she won. For 
she was remarkably successful. John said the way in 
which she carried that large audience with her, from the 
very outset, was astonishing. I have heard her read many 
times since, and very well know the marvelous purity, 
richness, scope, and flexibility of her voice. She was 
dramatic, too, and had carefully studied effects. Those 
great, strange eyes of hers — not now seemingly so great 
or strange as ten years before — were a strong accessory. 
They expressed more than any mere words can of pathos 
and power. 

I have never been enthusiastic over readings, as a 
means of public entertainment, possibly for the reason 
that we have so few really good readers. But I had to 
confess, after hearing Miss Hensell, that somewhat of the 
true spirit of oratory might pervade mere elocutionary 
effort. Some of her recitations were thrilling ; she gave 
the stale lines of several well-known pieces with as much 
feeling, and moved her hearers as deeply, as though the 
words were her own soul’s utterance, and now first 
breathed forth. 

After the readings were over, and while the audience 
were passing out, a few friends gathered about Hope, 
upon the platform, and said their compliments. Another 
joined them, as they were about to leave. 

“ May I add my congratulations upon your success. 
Miss Hensell ? ” he asked. 

“ Why, Mr. Burley ! ” was Hope’s surprised response, 
as she warmly clasped his hand. “ How came you to be 
here ? ” 

“ I came to hear you read,” he said. 

“ But you surely did not come all the way from Lis- 
comb for that purpose ? ” 


WINNING HOPE. 


189 

“ No ; but if I had I should have been well paid. I 
came from Perrin, where I am teaching now.” 

John stepped forward, with his old-time hearty greet- 
ing. 

“ You will stop in town a day or two ? ” he said. 

“ I would like to, so as to look through the school,” 
Burley replied. 

“Then suppose you see Hope home, in the carriage 
which is waiting, and I will go and look to some matters 
which demand my attention to-night.” 

Burley rode home with Hope, and accepted her invita- 
tion to go in. They had been very good friends up to the 
time of her leaving Liscomb, but in a rather quiet, un- 
demonstrative way. He had genuine manhood in him, 
and would compel respect and regard from any one. 

“ You must be very tired. Miss Hensell,” he said, “ and 
I ought not to tax you with my company now.” 

“ Call me Hope, as you used to do, please. I am 
‘Miss Hensell’ to every one nowadays but John, and I 
am fairly homesick for my home name. Yes, I am tired ; 
but you shall stay and rest me for an hour with the sight 
of an old friend’s face, and the sound of an old friend’s 
voice. The mere seeing you has set me hungry for home. 
When did you forsake Liscomb ? ” 

“Within a month after you did.” 

“ And mother never wrote me so important an item of 
news. But what was ‘ The Telescope ’ doing, that it did 
not speak of it ? ” 

“ I believe there was a paragraph in it, to the effect 
that Albert Burley, who had been so long connected with 
the Academy in our midst, was about removing to Perrin, 
to become Principal of the Young Ladies’ Seminary there.” 

“ But why did you go t ” 

“ Because I was offered a better position than I could 


HIS PRISON BARS. 


190 

have in Liscomb, and because I was lonesome after you 
left.” 

“And because you had lost one young lady’s society, 
you sought compensation in the having fifty or a hundred 
young ladies to care for every day? You are not lone- 
some any longer ? ” and she laughed, as she put the 
question. 

“ Yes j I have been lonesome every day until now.” 

He spoke so earnestly that she was sobered* at once. 
There had never been any tender passages, any make- 
believes of love, between these two. It had somehow 
never occurred to her that quiet Albert Burley could talk 
sentiment. Was it leading to this now ? She trembled 
a little, she knew not why. 

“ I came to Ossoli for two purposes — to hear you 
read, and to look into your face.” 

“ And don’t you care to hear me talk ? ” she asked 
lightly, pleased in her half-homesickness, but puzzled as 
to what would come of such words from him. 

“Yes, if you will say what I most desire to have said.” 

He looked at her so searchingly that she blushed and 
was silent. 

“ Shall I tell you what that is ? ” he went on to ask. 

“ I shall not certainly know unless you do tell me, and 
then I may not say it. Is it best to take the risk ? ” 

Her question had its meaning, and was not encourag- 
ing. 

“There can be no greater risk in speaking than in 
preserving silence longer. I will take the risk. I want 
you to say you love me, and will be my wife. My love for 
you is not the growth of a day. It has been strengthen- 
ing with my strength, for years. Until you went away 
from Liscomb I did not realize how strong it was. It is 
my life. Can you say what I want said ? ” 


WINNING HOPE. 


I9I 

Hope hesitated. The tears gathered in her eyes before 
she made any answer. 

“ I almost wish I could,” she said, slowly. “ I respect 
you I like you ” — 

“ But you do not love me ? ” 

“ No ; I do not. And you would not wish me to say I 
will be your wife without loving you ? ” 

“ The love might come, perhaps. I would wait.” 

“ I will be very frank with you, Mr. Burley. I may 
never love any one — again. I have buried my love, 
once ; it has shown no signs of a resurrection since. I 
am not heart-broken ; I cherish no great disappointment ; 
I may love another as deeply as I once loved John 
Bremm , but it does not seem quite certain to me now. 
I will say this much ; that I know no man more likely to 
win my love back to life once more than you. I have 
been dreaming, a long while, of perfect content and peace 
in professional success, but my first tastes of it do not 
quite satisfy. Even to-night I am hungry for something 
more. Perhaps it is for your love. Any woman should 
be glad and proud of that.” 

“ I think you can love me yet, Hope. If you can meet 
John here, as you do, and speak so confidently of your 
love for him as a by-gone thing, I am sure you will. As 
I said, I will wait. Only promise me this : if I win your 
love at all, you will be my wife ” 

She bent her head a moment, and when she lifted it 
again her face was full of joy. 

“ I think you have won a little of it already,” she said, 
“ and I give the promise.” 


192 


HIS PRISON BARS. 


CHAPTER XL. 

POLITICAL SUCCESS. 

Throughout the spring and summer ensuing, nothing 
striking occurred. Albert Burley and Hope corresponded 
regularly, and though he tried to hold his love from ex- 
pression, it expressed itself often, but always so delicately 
that she was pleased. She came to look eagerly for his 
letters, and to find more and more pleasure in replying 
to them. If he had . obtrusively shown her his whole 
heart, over and over again, as a more demonstrative or 
less sagacious man might have done, I suspect she would 
have tired of him. The very fact that he was so delicately 
considerate, in all that he said or did, told strongly in his 
favor. 

Several times he ran up to Ossoli, which was only 
thirty miles by rail from Perrin, and had pleasant little 
visits with Hope, as with John, whom he ostensibly went 
to see. By the next fall he felt tolerably satisfied that 
Hope would one day be his ; but he could not be ready 
for marriage under another year, and he was patient 
enough to wait. 

John stood squarely by his purpose not to drink. Other 
than the promise to Miss Faythe, he took no pledge. In 
a way he regarded that promise binding ; but it was not 
exactly to him a solemn vow. Still, he meant never to 
drink again. It was safer not to, he knew. There was 
really no need. Sometimes he craved indulgence j but 


POLITICAL SUCCESS. 


193 

the craving did not master him. Often he was sorely 
pressed to drink ; but such invitations always brought 
Geraldine vividly before his mind, and met only good- 
natured refusals. 

He came to Baylan once a month or so, and it was 
ever a pleasure to shake his honest hand. He often 
spoke frankly of his successes, his plans, and his hopes. 

Geraldine helped him, by her frequent letters, her freely 
yielded love, her fervent prayers. Whenever he men- 
tioned her to any of the very few who knew their re- 
lationship, it was with a tenderness, almost a reverence, 
very beautiful indeed. 

Toward the end of summer, he won from Miss Faythe 
a promise that their union should be consummated the 
next Christmas — if it seemed right. She would make 
this proviso, despite his many pleas against it. “ We want 
to do as God wills,” was her only explanation. Some- 
times her pious upgiving of selfish desires rather vexed 
him, for the moment. Sometimes he was tempted to 
laugh at her trust, and to complain because she so regu- 
larly put her love of God in the way of her love for him. 
But he never did. 

The political campaign that fall bade fair to prove very 
lively, and both parties cast about for strong, popular 
candidates. At the Congressional Convention of John’s 
party, there were two strong men pressed, each by a fac- 
tion zealous and unyielding. The balloting continued 
all one day, without result. It finally became apparent 
that a third man must be fixed upon, who would com- 
mand the confidence of both factions, and thus it was 
that John was made the nominee. When his name was 
proposed it was greeted by one tremendous outburst of 
cheers, and he was nominated the next moment by accla- 
mation, an honor as great as it was then unexpected. 

13 


194 


HIS PRISON BARS. 


His speech in acknowledgment carried the convention by 
storm, and convinced all that no mistake had been made, 
albeit the candidate was so young, and, in practical legis- 
lation, so inexperienced. 

Miss Faythe was both gratified and pained, when she 
heard of John’s nomination. She realized the high com- 
pliment her lover had received ; she feared for the result. 
The very same evening the news reached her she wrote 
him a long, loving letter, and in it she said : — 

I am almost afraid for you, my dear friend. You will have_ 
to go through another season of speech-making, and all that, 
and you may be tempted more than you can bear. I don’t be- 
lieve political association is very good for you, or for any one. 
I want you to be elected, of course I do, and yet I would far 
rather that you should not be, than that you should win elec- 
tion at the cost of your principle. You understand what I 
mean ? I have no fear that you will ever sacrifice any princi- 
ple but that of temperance. Until now, for these many months 
past, I have felt no fear with regard to this. Is my fear such 
a very foolish one now ? 

I hope it is. Please do not let it trouble you. Only I could 
not rest, somehow, without writing you of my misgivings over 
this new mark of popular favor which you have received, as 
well as my gratification. Before my letter is ended I am feel- 
ing less and less of doubt, and I will take this as a good omen. 
You must be given of God to do great things for Him and your 
fellow-men. Else why are you permitted to receive such high 
marks of recognition and esteem ? I think you will do all that 
is expected of you. I believe in you, dear heart, as I never 
did before, somehow. And I will pray for you even more ear- 
nestly, never forgetting to pray that you may pray for yourself. 

John’s response was noble and manly, and encouraged 
her still more. He realized, he said, that his responsi- 
bilities and temptations were largely increased ; that he 
must set a yet more careful watch over his life ; that as 


POLITICAL SUCCESS. 


195 

he was now brought prominently before the public he 
owed it to himself, to the party he represented, to com- 
mon morality, and to his Maker, to acquit himself blame- 
lessly. This he should do. She might give up any ques- 
tionings, and rest quietly content in his love. Only one 
favor he would ask : his election was almost a certainty ; 
Congress would assemble early in December ; might they 
not be married before that time, so that she could accom- 
pany him to Washington, and spend the winter there ? 
To which query she responded affirmatively, with her ac- 
customed modification of, “ if it shall seem best.” 

John Bremm did acquit himself blamelessly, through 
the whole short but enthusiastic canvass. He won favor 
among men of all parties, by his straightforward bearing, 
by the courteous fairness of his speech, by the manliness 
which characterized his entire action. The opposition 
could bring no more serious charge against him than that 
he had been known to drink. This they harped upon so 
persistently that he at last came out with a frank, honest 
letter, printed in his own paper, in which he confessed to 
former semi-intemperate habits, but affirming that for 
nearly a year he had not drank one drop of intoxicating 
liquor, and declaring it his firm purpose never to drink 
any more. 

He won the political race. His majority was something 
unequaled in all the past victories his party had achieved, 
and of course he was elated with the result. Returns 
did not come in from the entire district until the day suc- 
ceeding election, and in the evening his political friends 
tendered him a complimentary serenade. Half of Ossoli 
went out upon the street to see and hear. John made a 
speech of thanks, from the hotel balcony, and ended by 
inviting his friends in to partake of refreshments. He 
thought he was strong, but this was a test of strength he 
should not have made. 


HIS PRISON BARS. 


196 

The company was a merry one. The young Congress- 
man-elect was host, and a liberal one he must be, after 
such an indorsement as had been given him at the polls. 
A fine supper was serv-ed, the landlord having received 
previous orders, and a jolly time they had of it. Success 
had not thus far overmastered him. Though he knew 
liquor would be expected of him he did not call for it. 
One of his rich partisans noted the omission, and fearing 
Bremm might be thought mean, he quietly gave the order, 
and champagne presently flowed free for all. John could 
not refuse to drink, when the wealthy and influential 
partisan who had ordered the wine rose and pledged his 
future, and having drank once, he drank and drank again. 

Before all late sitters had departed he was noticeably 
under the liquor’s influence, and it was with difficulty 
that he kept up decent appearances until the last. When 
he finally sought his bed, the landlord’s aid was needed, 
for his condition was pitiable indeed. 

The opposition newspaper, in its issue next day, had 
this significant paragraph : — 

General John Bremm, the newly elected Congressman, was 
serenaded at the Buckstone House last evening, and treated 
his admirers to a handsome supper. We shall not undertake 
to say how many cases of champagne were opened, but there 
was all the company wanted to drink, and rather more than 
some of them could well carry, at the close. If it had not 
been for mine host Roslyn, the gallant general himself would 
have gone to bed with his boots on. 


A SORE STRUGGLE. 


197 


CHAPTER XLI. 

A SORE STRUGGLE. 

Some one, with either kind or unkind intention, sent 
Miss Faythe a copy of the paper, with this paragraph 
marked. The purport of it was not quite clear to her, at 
first. She read it through two or three times before she 
realized what it surely, meant for her. . 

For strong as was her love, Geraldine Faythe was 
equally strong and immovable in her conviction that the 
woman who would marry a man given to drink was holden 
before God for a great sin. She had somehow grown 
into this conviction, and in such a nature as hers, convic- 
tions are not easily swept away. There was but one 
natural result, then : her marriage must be again post- 
poned. If she had counted as certainly upon its speedy 
consummation as had John, her disappointment would 
have been greater. As it was, though, she felt very 
deeply pained. 

Her expectation was keen as any child’s. She had 
looked forward to a winter in Washington with delight. 
Life always held more for her than the average person. 
In every little pleasure she saw more than most of us see. 
But this was not all. She believed that as John’s wife 
she could help him, day by day ; that she could be to him 
a comfort and a rest ; that she might, under God, lead 
him up to a higher life of thought and trust. Sometimes, 
too, she felt sorely her need of him; sometimes she 


HIS PRISON BARS. 


198 

seemed so weak and tired and uncertain, that her whole 
being was just a crying out for his unchecked love and 
sympathy, his full support. 

Her need never had appeared so strong and uncom- 
promising as it did for two or three days after that paper 
came. Every waking hour was a battle of her conviction 
with her love and her desire. All the arguments that 
love could offer arrayed themselves on one side ; and 
they were many. Over against these stood simply the 
one argument of Right. There were numerous reasons 
why it would be unwise, as she thought, to marry John 
now ; but they were fully met by desire. Privation might 
come of intemperance; but she would willingly share 
this. Hardships and suffering might ensue ; but her 
love could conquer these. If only in God’s sight it 
would not be wrong ! 

It was a bitter battle that she passed through, and she 
had no human help. No one of her family felt as she 
did, touching the right and wrong of many things. She 
could not find counsel in a mother’s words, in times like 
this. She could only, as her phrase had expressed it, ask 
God. 

When she had fought the battle all through, and it had 
left her weak and worn, but a victor, John came, and it 
was opened once more. He would have kept his one 
indulgence from her, perhaps, but she showed him the 
paper, and looked at him with so much sorrow in her 
eyes, that he was stricken anew with remorse. His con- 
fession was honest and his pledges sincere. His grief, 
over the slip, he said, had been as great as her own could 
be ; and seeing the strong man shaken by it, as he once 
more was, pity pleaded with her most touchingly. 

“ I cannot do without you,” John said, finally. “ God 
only knows how I need you here. In Washington my 


A SORE STRUGGLE. 


199 

need will be greater yet. It is not right in you to with- 
hold the help you can grant. Don’t you see it was meant 
that you should be my helper? You have a faith never 
given to me, and a holier purpose than I can ever attain 
to. Why keep these from me any longer ? If I had you 
near me always, I could not fall.” 

“ You cannot have me with you always, even if I 
become your wife. I could not have been* with you at 
that supper the other night. Would you not have been 
just as apt to drink, with me waiting for you in our home, 
as you were with me here ? ” 

“ No ! ” he answered quickly. “ I should not have 
drank to excess, as I did ; you may be sure of that.” 

“ But you did not mean to drink to excess, did you ? 
What proof is there that while not meaning to drink to 
excess, if married, you would refrain any more than 
now ? ” 

“ Would you not have my love as proof ? ” 

“ But I have your love already. If love does not keep 
you from excess now, I fear it would fail always.” 

“Your daily influence would work with it, and the two 
could not fail. Oh, Geraldine ! you must not hold out 
against me. It will be a positive sin,” and he spoke so 
vehemently that she trembled. For an instant she shut 
her eyes, and made no reply. 

“ I should believe what you say about the daily influ- 
ence — I should so like to believe it — if I had never 
known any testimony to the contrary. But so many 
women have been talked to just as you are talking to 
'me, and in so many instances their influence was of no 
avail. One of my best school friends is wretched now, 
as a wife, because she believed she could reform the man 
of her choice after marrying him. I have known several 
other such cases.” 


200 


HIS PRISON BARS. 


“ But these women were not you, and they could not 
do for a man what you can do for me. That makes all 
the difference.” 

“ My dear friend,” — and she spoke low and hesitat- 
ingly, — “I am as weak as any one of them. I am just a 
woman, like the rest. You would lean on me, and you 
would go down.” 

“No, no j* you are nervous and afraid. There is no 
danger. I shall hold you to your promise, but to-night 
you are tired and almost sick, and we will drop the sub- 
ject, and I will go away. To-morrow I will come again, 
and you will think differently.” 

All the night long she fought her battle over again. A 
weary, wearing struggle it was, and the morning found 
her absolutely exhausted, the weakest, most dispirited 
victor that ever won a conflict. When John came she 
could not see him, but sent this little note down in 
apology : — 

I am too ill to meet you this morning — too ill, and too weak. 
I must do right in this matter, and I dare not hear the plead- 
ings of your love until I feel stronger. Give me a little time. 
Go back to Ossoli, and let me think. I am not unkind, but I 
must be just to myself and to God. And yet I am always your 

Geraldine. 

John returned to Ossoli hurt, and sorry and almost 
discouraged. He felt wronged, but he hardly knew how. 
One hour he was very bitter at heart toward Geraldine’s 
obstinacy, as he was inclined to call her firm holding to a 
conviction ; the next his heart yearned toward her with 
a tenderness and longing he could not displace. He 
wrote her a long, appealing letter, soon after reaching 
home, going over all the arguments once more, and mak- 
ing the strongest pleas his pen and his love could syllable. 
By and by came the answer, and the latter part of it ran 
thus : — 


A SORE STRUGGLE. 


201 


The great question with me, my dear friend, has been of my 
duty as related to your need. You say you need me so much, 
and you think with me you would not fall, and you feel confident 
that I owe it to you to give you all the help I can. I have 
asked God every hour, almost, since you left, about this very 
point. You see I want so to answer your need, and be all the 
help to you I can. But this is the way it looks to me — that a 
man should be strictly temperate just from his own principle. 
What you ought to do in this matter, and what habit you 
should indulge, are questions that I have really no part in. 
You should put me out of your thoughts, while thinking of the 
matter. It does not seem to be right that a man should want to 
marry a woman just to hold him to such conduct as his own 
force of character, together with his strength of principle, is 
not strong enough to hold him to. 

Does this sound harshly to you ? It pains me to pen such 
words, but I am speaking frankly. I must. I should never 
forgive myself if I failed to say what comes to me, as I feel, on 
purpose to be said. 

Then as to help ; dear heart, God’s help is a great deal 
better than mine. He is never weak. He never errs. He is 
with you constantly ; He can assist at times when my assist- 
ance could not reach you. You have his help now, or you 
may have it. And if you will take Him as your constant com- 
panion, before you take me, I shall have no fear. I can trust 
his support for you ; I only distrust you as I distrust myself. 

No, my friend, we will wait. You will not need me in Wash- 
ington, if you have God. And I shall never forget to ask Him 
to go with you wherever you go, and to hold you every hour by 
the hand. You may come to me as often as you can until you 
go away for the winter, for you will not urge me any more 
now. I feel settled about it. Another year, if you wish, and 
it seems best, but not before. But there is no past or future to 
my love — it is all now. And even now I am your 

Geraldine. 


202 


HIS PRISON BARS. 


CHAPTER XLII. 

‘‘vanity of vanities.” 

John was so thoroughly dissatisfied — with Geraldine, 
himself, and life in general — when he read the letter, 
that he felt as if anything would be better than to stay 
there quietly in Ossoli and think. So he stepped on 
board the cars and rode to Perrin, for a chat with Burley. 

It was Burley’s leisure day, and John found him recre- 
ating amid chemical apparatus, in the laboratory. * 

“ It will be a mercy to you, old boy, to get you away 
from the atmosphere of study for a few hours,” John said. 
“ Come ! Let ’s stroll off on to the hills, as we used to 
do.” 

It was an October day, that had slept somehow, until a 
full month past its time. We get such an one, occasion- 
ally, in November, and it is like a smile on a dead face. 
And is it not, indeed, the dead summer smiling its fare- 
well ? 

Perrin is situated very much as Liscomb is, and when 
they had climbed above the town and could look down 
upon it, each thought of his boyhood. 

“ Do you ever wish you were back there, Bert ? ” asked 
John. 

“ On the old farm again ? Yes. That is natural, I 
suppose. We never get quite beyond ourselves as we 
were, do we ? ” 

“ Perhaps not, in one sense. In another sense we do. 


“ VANITY OF VANITIESr 203 

I am a long way further from my boyhood than I wish I 
was. It seems the weariest distance behind me.” 

“ Well, that is natural, too. You have crowded more 
life into the last dozen years than we quiet souls may ^ 
ever live. Days do not measure years ; it is experience.” 

“ Yes ; I know. But the experience may measure a 
great deal that we wish it could n’t. Mine does — does 
not yours ? ” 

“ My opportunities have been small, and I have not seen 
much that I did not care to see. You who have larger 
opportunities, and win great successes, must pay for them 
in some manner, I suppose ; ” and Burley smiled as he 
said this. 

John answered his smile with a bitter laugh. 

“ What does success mean ? ” he asked, doubtingly. 
“What is it, anyhow? Who is successful ? ” 

“There is a prevalent opinion that one General John 
Bremm, just elected to Congress in this district, has been 
quite successful, as the word goes,” Burley responded, 
with no real levity in his tone. “ I knew him when he 
was but a poor farmer’s boy ; then when he became a 
writer for the press. He is now well-to-do in the world, 
has an enviable reputation as a soldier, can make a cap- 
ital speech, stands well as an editor, and, his friends 
believe, will make his mark at Washington. I suspect 
the world would say he is truly successful.” 

“ And the world would say wrong ? ” still with the bit- 
ter laugh running along-side his words. 

Burley stopped a moment, and looked at John, as he 
had not looked at him before. He saw that something 
had gone wrong with him. 

“Yes, the world would say wrong,” said he. 

“ Why ? ” 

“ Because true success brings with it true satisfaction, 


HIS PRISON BARS. 


204 

and you are not satisfied. You are not at peace with 
yourself. Honestly, John, are you ? ” 

John laughed again, this time less bitterly. 

“ Honestly, I am not. But then, no one ever is. Life 
is all a vanity and a vexation of spirit. The wisest of 
men said so, and he ought to have known. I am more 
than ever persuaded he told the truth.” 

Burley laughed a little, in turn. 

“ I am a trifle heretical upon that point,” he replied. 
“ Stay with me until Monday, and I will tell you what I 
think of Solomon’s declaration. I am to preach, to-mor- 
row, and my text will be just ‘ Vanity of vanities.’ ” 

“ Stay ? of course I ’ll stay. And so you ’ve taken to 
preaching } ” 

“ Oh no ; only now and then, as there ’s a call. One 
of the ministers here is sick, and I fill his place. I ’m 
but a lay preacher, like yourself j only I preach in the 
pulpit, and you preach through your paper.” 

“ And I preach politics, and you preach ” — 

“Wait until to-morrow and you will know. It may not 
be strictly theology, for I ’m not read up in that, yet, but 
I try to have it good Christian common-sense.” 

They went to church together, next morning, and when 
one had taken a seat in the pulpit, and the other in a 
pew, there seemed a great and widening distance between 
them. It humbled John Bremm, some way. He had 
never thought long upon the soberer things of life, but 
he had held, and held still, a high respect for God’s ap 
pointed ministers, albeit he had seen some, during his 
army experience, who sadly belied their work. Now here 
was Albert Burley, accounted worthy — and, as he was 
confident, justly so — to minister of God. Was not the 
unpretending teacher, who had won no fame, who had 
never been praised and flattered and helped on, immeas- 


VANITY OF VANITIES: 


205 

urably superior to himself ? Had not the quiet life of his 
friend been worth far more than his own noisy one ? 
Granting even that he had not taken so many steps into 
sin as he had taken, what did his life amount to, any- 
how ? 

In such lines did John’s thoughts run on, through the 
opening services. You see he was just now very bitter 
against himself. He had really believed in John Bremm 
until the past few days. He had held himself in fair 
esteem. He had thought uncommonly well of himself, 
perhaps. You have noticed that when two especially 
good friends fall out they are apt to be especially bitter 
enemies 1 Such was the relationship in which John 
Bremm stood to himself at this time. 

I am not sure but Albert Burley, in his own person, 
was a better sermon to John than the words he said. 
Yet the words were very keen and searching, some of 
them. John almost forgot to whom he was listening, 
after a little, so fresh and fervent was the thought. Were 
the preacher’s views heretical ? In a way, yes. He 
spoke of the unwisdom of Solomon, so long accepted as 
Wisdom’s embodiment,* and boldly urged that when Sol- 
omon declared life to be all a vanity he was wrong. “ I 
hold,” said he, “ that life is very much more than vanity 
and vexation of spirit;” and some of his reasons were 
strong ones, I must confess. Thus the argument ran : — 

To begin with, life is the gift of God. Is God’s gift onP^ ■ 
for a vexation of soul ? Are the things He metes out to us 
day by day only vanities } Must daily being prove of neces- 
sity the stale, trite story Solomon made complaint about, when 
we are assured that God is our Father, and his bounties are 
new every morning and fresh every evening 1 No, no ! In 
the deepest and truest and far the best sense, Solomon was 
wrong in his estimate. The gift of life temporal was made by 


2o6 


HIS PRISON BARS. 


God as preparatory to that other and grander gift of life eter- 
nal. Think you the preparation would be all vanity when the 
ultimate end should be so real it would never know ending ? 
Fleeting is this life ? True ; but still not vanity. Changeful 
is it ? True ; but still not vanity. Perplexing is it, and 
wearisome ? True, again ; but again, not vanity. 

We may pervert the individual being, and make it wretch- 
edly mean and meagre ; we may individually live on so low a 
level that the vexation of spirit abides with us continually ; 
but the grand fact is fixed and unalterable, life is not vanity. 
If it were, I should hope Solomon was right in some of his- 
other sayings, and that the end of a man is as the end of a 
beast — that “there is neither knowledge, nor wisdom, nor 
device in the grave.” If the gift of life here were all a vanity, 

I would pray God to withhold from me the gift of a life here- 
after ; for in what a woeful condition must we go from the one 
to the other ! 

Then if there were no other reason, I should think the drift 
of Solomon’s complaining discourse wrong, because a later 
preacher spoke in such wide contrast. Hear Him on the 
Mount : “ Blessed are the poor ; blessed are they that 

mourn ; blessed are the meek ; blessed are they which do 
hunger and thirst” — blessed, blessed, blessed — in what? 
In that which was only vanity ? I cannot think so. Blessed 
in some life yet to come ? That also, beyond question ; but 
before that, blessed here. 

“ It befalleth a man as it befalleth a beast,” said Solomon. 
“ I go to prepare a place for you,” said the Better Preacher. 
“ Man dies as the beast dies,” wailed out the complaining king. 
“ I am the resurrection and the life,” said He who was greater 
than Solomon. Solomon was wrong, and Jesus Christ was 
right. 

How many tributes Christ paid to the worth of life. See 
Him, upon the way. A bier approaches, and a weeping con- 
course of followers. Has one slipped away from vanity and 
vexation of soul ? More than this : one has gone out of life. 
Think you Jesus would have stood in the way of that widow’s 
sorrow as He did, with his “ I say unto thee. Young man. 


VANITY OF vanities: 


207 


arise ! ” if it had been raising one up only to vanity ? 
Standing at the tomb of his dead friend in Bethany, whom He 
loved, would He have bidden “ Lazarus, come forth ! ” to noth- 
ing more than vanity? Never! For the sick whom He 
healed, for the dead whom He restored to life. He saw better 
possibilities. He knew what they might make of living; 
what his Father had granted unto all to make of it. He saw 
its beauties, its grandeur, its nobleness, as only God and his 
Son can see them. He measured life as the best of us may 
never expect to measure it, and to it He paid divinest tribute. 
It is true, that all these thousands of years men have been test- 
ing life. Millions have tested it after the foolish manner of 
Solomon, and have as foolishly cried out that all is vanity, at 
the end ; and yet I do not believe it. Other millions have 
tested it in wiser ways, and have given in their testimony that 
life is a good thing, and a worthful ; and this I do believe, be- 
cause superadded to it I have the fact of Christ’s life, and the 
crying out of my own soul. 

Whenever men have put heart and manhood into living, in- 
stead of self and lust, the end has been not so much a com- 
plaint as a glorying. Louis XV., steeped in the vices of the 
most vicious French court of all history, might reecho the 
wail of his ante-type ; but other men, kinglier than he in real 
kingship, testify more truly. Men nerved with high purpose, 
and partakers of the strength of God, have wrought out a 
better consummation than failure and regret. 

Worthy work makes life more than vanity. I think of a 
man now whose testimony at the end was in wide contrast to 
that of Solomon, as indeed his life was in wide contrast to 
Solomon’s life. He was a worker in the early Christian time ; 
his pleasure for long and weary years was to do the Master’s 
service. He endured fatigue, and persecution, and suffering; 
and yet what did he finally declare ? “ I have fought a good 

fight ; I have kept the faith 1 ” And as a consequence, he 
could add, “ Henceforth there is laid up for me a crown of 
righteousness I ” Ah, my friends ! St. Paul was a better 
Christian than Solomon.* St. Paul was right, and Solomon was 
wrong ! 


208 


HIS PRISON BARS. 


There was more than this. Indeed, I have given but a 
part of the main argument of the sermon, which I heard 
Burley repeat, some time afterward. There were a few 
touching words at the close, I remember, in pity for those 
who come nigh to the end with doubting and complaint, 
and only a cold religious philosophy for comfort ; and 
these were followed by some bits of glad rejoicing for 
such as grow into trust as they grow into years, and 
finally go out of life as into a great joy. 

John had never listened to a sermon just like this. 
He had been used to hearing the life hereafter glorified 
from the pulpit ; he had never before heard a preacher 
so glorify the life here. Then it came at a time most 
opportune. Burley must have preached it, so it seemed, 
for him. 

His eyes were moistened more than once, with a feeling 
he could not have analyzed. Was it alone the sad music 
in Burley’s voice, wedded to the pathos of his thought, 
that touched him ? The tears gathered for a ready flow, 
as the young preacher recited those tender words of faith : 
“ The Lord is my shepherd ; I shall not want. He 
maketh me to lie down in green pastures; he leadeth 
me beside the still waters. He restoreth my soul : he 
leadeth me in the paths of righteousness for his name’s 
sake. Yea, though I walk through the valley of the 
shadow of death, I will fear no evil : for thou art with me ; 
thy rod and thy staff they comfort me.” 

There was not much talk between the two friends, as 
they left the church. 

‘‘I am glad I came,” said John, simply. “Your ser- 
mon was true, and it has helped me.” 

“ It has helped me, too. I think perhaps I got more 
good out of it than any other one could.” 

“I do not understand that,” John answered. “You 


« VANITY OF VANITIESr 


209 


have been living up to the measurement of an honest, 
earnest life. It could not suggest to you all it might sug- 
gest to others.” 

“No man lives up to the measurement, John. Not 
many fail as wretchedly as Solomon failed ; none succeed 
as did Christ.” 

14 


210 


HIS PRISON BARS. 


CHAPTER XLIII. 

IN CONGRESS. 

Moods do not last. Back again in his sanctum, next 
day, there were a hundred things to drive all bitterness, 
all unusual soberness, out of John Bremm’s mind. The 
few days intervening before he must be in Washington 
were so full of matters political, of personal business, and 
the like, that he could only visit Baylan once. His dis- 
appointment over Geraldine’s decision did not die out, 
but it was covered up. It was well, I think, that the 
other things came in as they did. 

When Congress met there was enough to think of and 
take part in — enough of legislative business, and official 
annoyances, and social being and doing. As you know, 
John’s sociality was large. Here it had full and constant 
opportunity. He was an eligible escort for the pretty 
daughters of Senator This and Secretary That ; he had a 
fine record, and was popular wherever he went ; he was 
accounted one of the rising young men of the House. 
He was presently on as good terms with himself as ever 
he had known ; esteemed himself as highly, believed as 
implicitly in his own capacity and his own strength. 

For a time he wrote Miss Fay the quite fully of his 
socializing, as of all his daily life. By and by he spoke 
of it but cursorily. He felt, as by intuition, that it did 
not harmonize with her nature, her tastes. He knew, 
when he stopped to think of it, that the life he lived was 


IN CONGRESS. 


2II 


far below the standard Burley had placed before him. In 
his few reflective moments he turned from it, half dis- 
couraged, wholly dissatisfied, and with hunger in his soul. 

Hull Latimer went to Washington toward spring, and 
the report he brought back was not just what we hoped 
to hear. 

“ Bremm does his duty as a representative,” he said, 
“ and stands well. There are few whose prospects look 
fairer than his. But I ’m afraid for him.” 

Before Congress adjourned I had business in Washing- 
ton, and also saw John. To my surprise, he asked me 
out to drink. My somewhat astonished look called forth 
a word or two apologetic. 

“ We have to do this in Washington. The very air is 
different here. I am a temperance man at home, but 
everybody drinks at the capital.” 

“ Does Miss Faythe know .?” I asked, significantly. 

“ No ; there is no need. When I return I shall drop 
the habit. In Rome, I must do as the Romans do. I 
don’t care for liquor : I only drink because custom com- 
pels it.” 

“ But you say she will not marry you so long as you 
drink. Have you given her up, then ? ” 

“ Not by any means,” and he spoke half indignantly. 
“ She will change her notions about that ; she can’t help 
it. We must not attempt to overturn the customs of 
good society.” 

When John returned home he found it not so easy to 
give up what had become a daily habit. He had been 
a Roman so long in Rome that now he was in Ossoli 
once more it was easier to be a Roman still. He did not 
dissipate to great excess, but he could not possibly have 
passed now for a temperance man. 

Albert Burley and Hope were married soon after John’s 


212 


HIS PRISON BARS. 


return, and he spent a few days in Liscomb to attend the 
wedding. It was a very quiet affair. Few more com- 
pletely satisfied brides ever were seen, than the one Bur- 
ley saluted with almost reverent kiss, after the ceremony 
was done. She had outgrown her earlier love ; indeed, 
it no longer seemed a love to her, only just a school- 
girl’s fancy. She had come to feel for certain things a 
peculiar commiseration, but not regret. 

“ I look back and see myself as I was then,” she said 
once to Burley, “ and I think it must have been some one 
else. And I really have a kind of pity for such a young, 
inexperienced thing, who did not know the half that I 
know now.” 

And Burley was satisfied. He had never been jealous 
of John. He never would be. Even had he believed 
that Hope once did freely love another, it made no differ- 
ence. She loved him now ; of this he had not a doubt. 
She loved him, and her love would last. 

They settled down at Perrin, after a few weeks of 
journeying, and John visited them briefly, a few times, 
before Congress came together again. It pained them to 
see even faint signs of dissipation upon him. 

Once when he came to Baylan, in the fall, we spoke of 
the coming session. “ You will be married before it be- 
gins, I suppose,” said I. 

“ Don’t mention it,” was his response. “ Miss Faythe 
is obdurate — foolishly so. She will not marry me until 
I have abstained from liquor for a year, at least.” 

“ What are you going to do ? ” I asked. 

“ Going to let the stuff alone ! ” said he, most emphat- 
ically, and I wrung his hand for joy at the words. 

“ Stick by your resolution,” I counseled. “ Geraldine 
Faythe is worth any sacrifice. More than all that, John, 
she is right. I honor her sense ; and so will you some 
day.” 


THE FAILURE OF SUCCESS. 


213 


CHAPTER XLIV. 

THE FAILURE OF SUCCESS. 

Toward the end of winter, in one of his letters to Miss 
Fay the, John wrote as follows : — 

My complete happiness, darling, is only a question of time. 
I have not drank a drop of intoxicating liquor since I came to 
Washington, and if I can let it quite alone here, I am sure I 
can do so anywhere. I will not say I have not been tempted, 
but my promise to you shall be kept, you may rely upon it. 
You are more to me than the demands of society or the crav- 
ings of appetite ever can be. If I only had you with me now ! 
But I know how decided you are to wait until next fall before 
I may claim you, and I am not going to try to change your 
mind. You may as well count it certain, though, that before 
next December comes you are to be mine. 

I have never resolutely resolved not to drink any more, until 
this time. I thought I had, but I hadn’t. It does not seem 
so hard now. I can withstand temptation far easier than I 
ever could before, and have no fears for the future. 

This very much encouraged Miss Faythe. She felt a 
great load lifted from her heart. In her reply she 
said ; — 

I shall never doubt God any more. I have not dared to ask 
you about this, fearing — I know not what. But I have asked 
God for you every day, almost every hour. I know He hears 
me when I ask aright. 

I have so wanted you to be a strong power for good. It does 
seem to me, dear heart, that you have been drifted along thus 
far through the world, and that some such test as you are now 


HIS PRISON BARS. 


214 

put to was needed, to develop the real manhood in you. Of 
course I know you have done manly things, and have shown 
yourself very brave ; but these are what men look at. Perhaps 
God thinks less of all that, and more of the bravery of one’s 
inner life. But this sounds like preaching and I have given 
you enough (too much Y) of that heretofore. 

I shall be ready by December — or when God wills — to 
say to all the world that I am your Geraldine. 

General John Bremm’s popularity was so great that 
when the next summer came his renomination was gener- 
ally conceded. But after a little, complications arose. 
Some radical temperance men objected to him as a can- 
didate, and proposed to run him off the track within his 
own party. First they came and sought pledges from 
him that he would support only such men as they might 
name, for political position ; and these he would not give. 
Then they tried to defeat him in convention, and failed. 
Then they put up an independent nominee, who secretly 
sold out to the opposition, and succeeded in being placed 
upon the opposition ticket also. 

Matters looked squally for “General John,” as he was 
often termed by those who knew both him and the Gov- ' 
ernor. He came to Baylan and had long conferences 
with his Excellency, Israel Bremm. I was present at one 
of these. 

“ Those temperance men are beautifully wooled,” said i 
the Governor. “ Do they suppose Stanwix would be in- : 
dorsed by our opponents, if he were an honest temper- 
ance candidate ? They will find out their mistake after 
election, if you are defeated. If the opposition did not 
concede you great strength, they would have put up one j 
of their own men, sure. They evidently thought you 
could beat them, and this faction too, unless they com- 
bined, and that the chance of half a loaf was better than \ 


THE FAILURE OF SUCCESS. 21 $ 

positively no bread. Stanwix has bargained with them, 
as his friends will learn.” 

“ And his bargain, I am afraid, will defeat me,” said 
John. 

“ We must not let it,” promptly answered Governor 
Bremm. “ It is not so hard a thing to manage. Stanwix 
is not an acceptable candidate to the mass of those who 
are asked to elect him, for he is an avowed temperance 
man, and has all along been with us. Our regular oppo- 
sition leaders dare not inform their rank and file of his 
true position, because in doing that they must also post 
the temperance faction, which never would do at all. We 
have an anomaly in politics — a liquor party supporting 
a temperance nominee because political leadership says 
they must. Their support will be under protest, and 
some of it can be turned over to you. That can be easily 
done. You are not as objectionable on the score of 
temperance as Stanwix is, and you can make yourself 
still less so — until after election at least,” and his Ex- 
cellency smiled meaningly. 

“ But \ am z. temperance man,” John said, with an ear- 
nestness which gratified me. “ I mean to remain one.” 

“ Of course, of course,” said Governor Bremm, mod- 
ifyingly. “You need not sacrifice any of your own no- 
tions. Just let your friends manage it. Stanwix is a 
good temperance man — know him like a book. But his 
friends will put up free liquor when the proper time 
comes; your friends must do likewise — and a little 
more so. Our folks will see that the Central Com- 
mittee has funds enough. We may not be able to buy 
many votes from the temperance faction ; but plenty can 
be had of our old opponents as usual. We may have 
to negotiate for a few more than usual, that ^s all.” 

A more bitter political fight was never waged in the 


2i6 


HIS PRISON BARS. 


Ossoli district than that which followed. Beginning early, 
it was prosecuted by all parties concerned with a vigor 
that approached malignity. Long before the end John 
wished it over, and would have withdrawn from it, but 
for pride’s sake and party enthusiasm. 

“ I wish you were well out of this political muss,” said 
Burley to him, one day. “ Such contests, conducted as 
this is being conducted, must blunt any man’s moral 
sense. You were made for better work than soils your 
hands now.” 

“You’re right, there, Burley,” was John’s frank re- 
sponse. “ Once over this fight and they won’t coax me 
into another. But I can’t desert now. I am enlisted for 
the war, and I ’ll battle to the end, cost what it may.” 

“ Take care that it does not cost you Geraldine 
Faythe,” Burley answered, for he knew nearly all the 
facts about their relationship. 

“ It cannot do that,” John said, quickly, but soberly. 
“ I have not touched a glass of liquor yet, and I do not 
mean to until my year is up.” 

But was it possible for a man to be elected by such in- 
strumentalities as elected John Bremm, and come out 
unharmed ? Perhaps. The juggler handles red-hot coals 
in presence of his spectators, and is not burned ; but not 
one of the many hundreds who look on could escape 
injury should they try his feat. 

When the fight waged bitterest, and John’s blood was 
all in a fever, the Governor wrote him : — 

“ You must leave no stone unturned,” he said, in sub- 
stance, “ to win. You may have to sacrifice some scru- 
ples: but better do that than fail. It is vital to our 
future — yours and mine — that we lose no prestige. You 
can sit where I now do in five years, if you gain this vic- 
tory.” 


THE FAILURE OF SUCCESS. 


217 


Pride and ambition triumphed over everything else. 
For a time, in fact, he forgot all save that he must win. 
He went up and down the district making his speeches, 
seeing his friends, manipulating his enemies. His notes 
to Geraldine were the briefest ; her letters to him he 
scarcely read. His whole being was narrowed down to 
the talk, the thought, the acts of political'life. 

Do you wonder that finally he transgressed every 
pledge of total abstinence, every promise to himself, to 
the woman he loved, to us all ? I do not wonder. I 
only wonder that he held out so long against temptation 
such as few men ever have withstood. And when he fell 
I had no feelings of blame for him in my heart — only 
pity, even to tears, for one in whose native nobleness I 
had great faith, and a hatred deeper than ever for the 
curse of rum in politics, which had once more wrought 
his undoing. 

When it was over, “ being come to himself,” like the ' 
prodigal, he wrote Miss Faythe a letter that almost broke 
her heart. She had been in a constant struggle of mind 
concerning him, for days, even weeks, and now fear found 
its hard fulfillment. 

O my darling ! my success, that I wanted you to be so proud 
of, is but another failure. I am elected ; you know that ; but 
you do not know (I hope you do not, because I want to be first 
to tell you) that to win success I forfeited my word to you, and 
all my claim to your love and esteem, all my own self-respect. 
Some demon of sin led me on, I think. I could not help my- 
self. I was so strong all those months before, and then sud- 
denly so weak. O Geraldine ! can you ever receive me back 
again to your love and confidence ? I could almost curse God 
and die, darling ! 

The prize I have gained is nothing to me, now that I fear it 
has cost me more than I can ever regain. Has your heart lost 
its last excuse for my weakness and untruth ? I am on my 


2I8 


HIS PRISON BARS. 


knees at your feet, and I plead more humbly than ever a prodi- 
gal pleaded before. On my knees at your feet, and yet further 
off from love and purity than ever prodigal wandered till now. 
But I would return, darling ; I must return. There is never 
any more peace for me, away from your forgiving heart. I 
have nothing but the husks of remorse to feed upon, until you 
bid me “ Come.” Say the welcome word soon, ere I starve ! 

It was a full week later, before any reply reached him, 
and he in an agony of doubt and remorse almost every 
hour meanwhile. When it came it was very brief. It 
only said — 

“ Come ! ” 


A HUNGERING. 


219 


CHAPTER XLV. 

A HUNGERING. 

When Bremm reached Baylan, having hurried thither 
as fast as steam could take him, he went at once to the 
home of Miss Faythe. He found her reclining upon a 
couch, looking more worn and ill than he had ever seen 
her before. 

“ You have been sick ? ” he said interrogatively, after 
the first greeting was over. 

“ Yes, a little,” and she spoke with a manifest weari- 
ness that touched him. “ I have not seemed to be very 
strong, of late.” 

“ And I have helped your illness on,” he said depre- 
catingly. “ I shall never forgive myself ; can you eyer 
forgive me ? ” 

“ You were not to blame, John. I could not help feel- 
ing anxious for you, of course ; and as I said, I have n’t 
seemed strong.” 

“ Was it my letter ? ” he asked, somewhat vaguely. 

“ That made me really ill ? ” She hesitated a moment, 
and closed her eyes wearily. “ Yes,” she said, when she 
spoke again. “ I was so weak, you know, and — well, I 
had not expected it.” 

There was no hint of an accusing spirit in any word, 
in any tone. 

“You thought I had more strength,” he suggested, 
with something of bitterness. 


220 


HIS PRISON BARS. 


No ; not just that alone. But I thought God would 
keep you. It seemed as if He must, I prayed so.” 

“ Had you been so very anxious about me ? ” he asked, 
with an effort to remain calm. 

“Yes; I could not help it. But still I thought God 
was hearing me, some way. I wanted it, so, I suppose,” 
she added, as simply as might any child. 

He buried his face in his hands, and his strong frame 
shook with the feeling that possessed him. 

“The circumstances were very peculiar,” speaking 
brokenly, now. “ I shall never be placed so again. You 
cannot realize how I was pressed on. A man can’t 
always do as he knows he should, in political life.” 

“ Then don’t you think he might better keep out of 
it?” 

“ Some men must be in it. But I have wished a hun- 
dred times that I had not entered this campaign. They 
fought me like fiends. They made charges against me 
that would disgrace a highwayman of the meanest type ; 
they spent money like water ; and I had to resort to 
almost everything to beat them.” 

“ Perhaps God permitted it all as a test,” she said, fal- 
teringly. “ We have to be tested in so many ways. God 
tries our strength and our faith so often,” the words com- 
ing weariedly again, as if she were but syllabling an ex- 
perience. 

“ Are we to blame, then, if God tempts us so severely 
that we fall ? ” he asked, bitterly. 

“ God never tempts us. The Evil One is the tempter, 
and God permits him to have power in our hearts, if we 
permit him.” 

“ But God knows when we are being tempted beyond 
our strength,” he persisted. “Why does He not help 
us?” 


A HUNGERING, 


221 


“ He does, if we ask Him. I am afraid you do not ask 
Him, John.” 

He made no reply, and she spoke again. 

“ It is just to show us how weak we are, that God some- 
times lets us be tempted very peculiarly. I noticed what 
you said in your letter : ‘ I was so strong all those 
months before, and then suddenly so weak.’ You were 
strong simply in your own strength ; it was not God help- 
ing you ; you were not relying on God, at all. That 
was why I feared so much for you.” 

“ But I had your prayers ; why could they not keep 
me } ” 

He was seeking excuses for himself, now, and was anx- 
ious to shift responsibility. 

“ My prayers never can keep you,” and her voice was 
very sad. “ They may help you, perhaps ; but they can- 
not hold you, as God can hold you, as you need to be 
held, as I need to be held.” 

“ But you are never tempted. You don’t know, Geral- 
dine, what temptation is. You can’t.” 

“ My temptation may be different from yours, but I am 
tempted every day. Every one is, I suppose.” 

“ And yet you never doubt ? ” 

“Yes, sometimes; when I have fought until I am faint 
and weak, and I forget to lean on God.” 

“ But what battles can you have ? ” and he looked at 
her wonderingly. She smiled, a tired kind of smile, and 
waited a full minute before she answered. 

“ I have had one battle since your letter came,” she 
said. 

He was about to speak, but she interrupted. 

“ Wait, and I ’ll tell you. My love has seemed stronger 
than ever for you, for a long while. I have wanted you 
as I never wanted you before. My whole life has been 


222 


HIS PRISON BARS. 


just a hungering after you. Sometimes I feared you were 
coming between me and God, but I kept praying that 
He would only let you be to me what was right. And 
somehow it seemed right to love you as I was loving you, 
and I felt glad that it did, for it was an evidence to me 
that it would be right for me to marry you when you 
wished. When the letter came I feared I had been all 
wrong, and yet I could not bear to think so, and I wanted 
to put every doubt and questioning one side, and be yours, 
spite of my fears.” 

He would have spoken again, but she stopped him. 

“ No, let me tell you. I never had such a battle with 
myself. I was in the dark all the while ; I could n’t see 
any light. I tried to pray, but every word of prayer was 
just a plea for God to let me do as I wanted to do. There 
was one night that I thought I should die, John, with the 
pain of it.” 

She wiped the gathering tears from her eyes, and sighed 
wearily. 

“ By and by I began to see that my own will was caus- 
ing it all,” she continued. “ I tried to say, ‘ Not my will, 
but thine, be done;’ but I only said it with my lips. 
Finally, when I was so weak and ill that I could not re- 
sist longer, God pitied me. I just said to Him, ‘ My will 
is gone. Lord ; do with me as Thou wilt ! ’ and then it 
began to grow light.” 

A look that always puzzled John came over her face — 
a look of such resignation and peace as he never saw in 
the face of another. 

“ And you are satisfied that we ought not to be married 
now ? ” he inquired, after a little silence. 

“ Yes ; it would not be right. I tried to make it seem 
so, but wrong things will be wrong, no matter how much 
we try to make them appear right.” 


A HUNGERING. 


223 

He would have reasoned the matter with her, if she 
had not anticipated his arguments by her story of strug- 
gling. He knew now it would do no good, and could 
only cause her pain. 

“But can you forgive me, darling?” he asked. “You 
will not put me from you altogether? ” 

“ Why should I ? ” was her response. “ I must love 
you ! ” and her beautiful eyes said more even than her 
words. “ And as to forgiving, God forgives every trans- 
gression, even to the very end. I have no right to be 
more exacting than He is. You have sinned more against 
Him than against me.” 

John could not reply, at once. He was moved as he 
had seldom been moved before. 

“Geraldine Faythe!” he exclaimed, when he found 
words, “you are an angel ! ” 

She shook her head rather sadly. 

“ No, my friend ; I am only a weak, faltering woman, 
and never weaker than now.” 

He noticed then how much more pale and worn she 
looked than when he came. 

“I am wearing the life out of you,” he said. “You 
ought not to forgive me,” and he arose to leave. “ I will 
go now, and come again when you are rested.” 

She answered his parting kiss so tenderly that his heart 
gave a great throb, half of pain, half of joy ; and when he 
had reached the street it was throbbing still, but whether 
for pain or joy he could not have told. 


224 


HIS PRISON BARS. 


CHAPTER XLVI. 

THE STRAIT OF LOVE. 

Miss Faythe had been sorely taxed in mind, and was 
quite worn out physically, as a consequence. When John 
took his final leave of her, before going to Washington 
for the winter, she was still pale and feeble, and every 
look he gave into her face was a reproach to him. She 
did not complain much, but went about in a sad kind of 
weariness, contrasting painfully with her accustomed 
lively ways. 

Perhaps the remembrance of how worn and weary Ger- 
aldine looked, and how sadly tender was her last farewell, 
did more to hold Bremm strong in his newly-formed reso- 
lution than anything else could have done. He never re- 
called her now as she used to be — fair-faced, with great 
luminous eyes which told every expression of the lips be- 
fore they could possibly syllable a phrase, and with a 
girlish youthfulness that gave no hint of full five years of 
her life — without first seeing her as she stood before him 
that time he last kissed her good-by, her eyes almost over- 
flowing with unshed tears, her cheeks paled to very white- 
ness, a longing appeal speechless in her face, but speak- 
ing thus more eloquently than through any words. 

And all the hurrying winter through John stood nobly 
by his vow. How much it cost him, only God and him- 
self kne^v. How many times he was tempted almost be- 
yond further withstanding, only those can realize who 


A HUNGERING 


225 


have been through all he had been through, all he was 
obliged to go through again. Temptation assailed him 
on every side ; it beset him in every guise. Is it an easy 
thing, think you, to walk correctly among men.? Your 
ways run among those who believe as you believe, who 
practice as you practice. You are seldom met as he was 
met every day, well-nigh every hour. You rarely go where 
to drink is the correct thing ; where to refuse is thought 
foolishly puritanical and odd. You do not esteem it spe- 
cially brave for one to decline the wine-cup daily. You 
may be right. Some men go up and down as temperately 
as a man can, and it may not be brave in them to do it. 
They have formed no liking for that which intoxicates. 
With John Bremm it was different; how different some 
of my readers need not to be told. So I say he did 
bravely, and I say the truth. 

When spring came, he wrote Miss Fay the another letter 
of rejoicing and cheer, telling how he was yet true to 
himself and to her, and how fully he was determined to 
merit her love and patience. Among other things he 
said : — 

I am not so often tempted as I used to be, darling. You see 
I am becoming known as “anti-liquor,” in practice as well as 
theory, and very many temptations that assailed me a few 
months ago now pass me by.. Even if I were tempted contin- 
ually, it would not move me. I see you always as I saw you 
last, with that grieved, sorrowing look which I shall never 
forget. How much pain I must have caused you, to bring such 
sadness into your face ! I know, my darling, and my heart 
aches to think of it. Sometimes it seems .as if my heart must 
ache always. 

I love you so ! All these years since first you let me say it, 
I have gone on loving you with a love stronger and deeper, 
until now I cannot tell even a tithe of it ! I could say the 
words over and over, “ I love you so ! I love you so ! ” until 

15 


226 


HIS PRISON BARS. 


they made of themselves a song, and would sing on in your 
ears every hour of every day, and yet they would not measure 
the breadth or the depth of my love. I could think of you — I 
do think of you — with such an intensity of affection that it 
should compel your love in return ; and does it not 1 Is it not 
a sweet compulsion ? Would you free yourself from it 1 

My Geraldine ! you compel me, day by day. Separate 
though we are, you live by my side constantly, and I would not 
go far from you, if I could. You can lead me where you will. 
For your sake I have fought against temptation, and shall go 
on fighting against it. I would suffer even death for you, 
darling. To win you, to make your love and life add grace 
and beauty to mine, I would sacrifice more than I can tell, 
more than I may ever hold or possess. 

Miss Faythe read the words again and again. At first, 
with a thrill at her heart, for such words never grow old 
where they are honest, and go out to meet an honest 
response : then with a vague sort of questioning, as if 
underneath the full and hearty expression of love she saw 
trouble and pain. 

As a result of this questioning, she fought another 
sharp battle with her reason, her desire, her will. Hour 
after hour she struggled, solitary, unhelped. Sometimes 
she wondered if God had forsaken her. Sometimes she 
thought it unspeakably hard that she must solve so many 
difficult problems, and queried if other people were given 
anything like them for solution. Often she threw herself 
down by her couch in an agony of doubt, and cried pite- 
ously for light. 

By and by, her strength all spent, when she could only 
whisper “ Help me. Father ! ” so weakly that none but 
the pitying Father could hear, she sank to sleep. The 
conflict was over ; she would do her duty when day came 
again, with no faltering, no delay. And what form did 
her duty take ? This : — 


A HUNGERING, 


227 


Baylan, , 1869. 

My Dear Friend, — I have read your letter many times 
through. It is very sweet to me. It is like you, too, so frank 
and so earnest. I did not answer it yesterday, when it came, 
for I wanted a little time to think, — yes, and to pray. Now 
that I have thought and prayed a good deal, I feel that what I 
am going to say is right, and yet it hurts me to say it, because 
it will hurt you. 

You know I have always wanted to do as it seemed to be 
God’s will, in this matter of our engagement. It is very plain 
to me now that it is God’s will that we break off the engage- 
ment, and be just friends. I have thought many times before 
that it might all end so, but it never was clear to me as it has 
been of late. I have wanted to delay speaking of it, and I 
assure you now I have spoken after great hesitation, and in 
great pain. 

What pains me most is that I cannot make it plain to you as 
it is to me. I cannot even show you all the reasons why, as I 
would like to. I must just do what hurts me more deeply than 
it can hurt you, and leave you to find out my real motive as 
best you can. 

This does not look frank, my dear friend, I know. I can- 
not help it. For once in our intercourse I must withhold such 
expression as my heart prompts ; because it would harm 
you, although it might help me in your estimation. Sometime 
you may know everything. If the time never comes , n we can 
be friends just the same, can’t we ? No, not just thA same, 
either, of course. In severing our engagement' I mus^ take 
away from you the right to tell me of your love, or to ask any 
return. We are to be friends. Write to me as you used to 
write to Hope, and come to see me as you go to see her now 
— just friendly, you know. 

And do not let this strange step of mine lead you away from 
good resolutions. Oh my dear friend ! if you should fall under 
temptation again because of this, I should think it was not 
right for me to say what I have said ; and to feel I had done 
wrong in so great a matter, and had been the means of pulling 
you down, would kill me ! It is on this account, more than 


228 


HIS PRISON BARS. 


any other, that I have hesitated and delayed. Do not, I pray 
you, let me feel that your blood is upon my head ! 

I have written incoherently, I am aware, and you may be as 
much puzzled as pained by this letter. But I could not bear 
the hurt of trying to say over again what I have here tried to 
say. Let me only add that yOu will grieve me almost as much 
by attempts to persuade me I am wrong, as you will by thinking 
me unfaithful or unjust. But whatever you do, or whatever you 
think, I shall always be your friend, Geraldine. 

When she had written the letter, in a nervous haste, 
as if she were anxious to see the end. Miss Faythe read 
it through with whitening lips, sealed it slowly, sadly, as 
if now all cause for haste were past, and then knelt down 
once more to put up simply the brief petition of the night 
previous, “ Help me. Father ! ” And after breathing it 
forth again and again, in a tone beseechingly pitiful, she 
gave way at last to a flood of tears, borne out upon which 
was only the one occasional cry, “ O Father ! help me ! 
help me, or I die ! ” 




i\ 


NIGH TO THE END. 


220 


CHAPTER XLVII. 

NIGH TO THE END. 

John received Miss Faythe’s letter at his desk in the 
House of Representatives, in the midst of an exciting 
discussion upon some point concerning Reconstruction. 
He had just made a speech that commanded general 
attention, and won him compliments from the ablest 
members present. He was thinking of Geraldine, even 
as the letter passed into his hand ; thinking how pleased 
she would be at his success, and feeling very glad that he 
had succeeded so well, for her sake. 

The letter dazed him. He read it through, and through 
again, the second time slowly, as if studying every sen- 
tence, every word. No clew of the writer’s reason for 
such a step came to him. If she had said to him, “ I do 
not love )j)u; I never did; it has been all a pretense,” 
he could not have been more surprised, more shocked. 
She had shown such a depth of affection, such a fullness 
of patience, that he knew not what to think. At first he 
could hardly think at all. He was dazed, blinded, be- 
numbed. 

They were calling the vote, but he did not sense it. 
Not until his name had been repeatedly called, did he 
hear or heed it, and then he astonished every one by vot- 
ing against the proposition he had argued for s^^o- 
quently. 

“ What upon earth do you mean, Bremm } ” as^^Re 
of his party friends sharply, coming up in front of him. 


HJS PRISON BARS. 


,230 

John looked at him, puzzled by the man’s manner, and 
but half recalled to himself. 

“ Are you crazy, to vote in this way ? ” 

Something in Bremm’s face perplexed him still more. 

“ Don’t you know what you Ve done ? ” he continued, a 
little less harshly. “ We barely had a majority, with all 
our men here, and now you ’re recorded on the other side 
and at least three that we relied upon are out.” 

With a sickly sort of smile John answered, — 

“ Did n’t I vote right, Ernley ? ” 

“ You voted No ! plain enough,” that gentleman re- 
sponded, wondering still more what had come over Bremm. 
“ Get up quick and change your record,” he added. “ The 
chair has n’t declared the vote yet.” 

John did as requested, tendering no explanation of his 
act, and then abruptly left the House. 

After a little, when he came fully to realize all the letter 
meant, he began to grow indignant. True, he did not 
deserve Geraldine’s love, but he felt that he was entitled 
to her frankness. And the letter was not frank — she 
had said rightly. It was not like herself. Some one had 
told untrue things of him, and she had believed them. 
She must give her reasons for thus breaking off with him. 
He would not yield her up unless she did ; perhaps he 
would not give her up then. Was he a fickle-minded boy 
thus to yield his rights ? 

These and a hundred other statements he made to 
himself ; this and a score of similar questions he asked, 
in his own mind. But by and by he thought of her as 
she looked when they parted last, and all his indignation 
melted into a compassionate forgiving. He had caused 
her too much pain and anxiousness already ; he would 
not grieve her any more. It should be as she wished. 
He would yield everything to her will. If she would be 


NIGH TO THE END, 


231 

happier to have him as . her friend only, her friend he 
would be. But what should he do without her love ? 

Ah ! this was the one question he could not meet. He 
had relied upon her love through suffering and peril, 
amid temptations and falls. In impurity it had held him 
to the pure. It had been to him more, indeed, than he 
knew. And now must he give it all up 

These were hard lines, surely. His lines had all along 
been hard, some of them. God was unkind to him. Why 
had he been thus sorely dealt with ? He had not so griev- 
ously sinned. Thousands of men led worse lives than he 
had led, and were yet given good things of God. Now 
the one good gift he most coveted was taken away. 

So he went on reasoning, until he reasoned himself into 
a bitter, captious mood, that bade fair to carry him far 
away from truth and w'ell-doing. But for that one remark 
of Geraldine’s, “To feel I had done wrong in so great a 
matter, and had been the means of pulling you down, would 
kill me ! ” he might have rushed headlong into great 
woe. This kept him. “ She loves me yet ! ” he thought, 
his eye catching this expression again, after much doubt- 
ing and questioning; “she would not care so much, else. 
Some time she will change her mind.” 

He did not stop to think, just then, what later he knew 
to be true, that had she never loved him at all she might 
have uttered the same expression ; that so keen and deep 
was her sense of responsibility, she could not have felt 
herself the agent of another’s downfall, however little that 
other might be to her, without being crushed under it. 

A few hours later Bremm was walking slowly down 
Pennsylvania Avenue. He had left his hotel to get away 
from a throng of besieging politicians, whom he was in 
no humor to talk to. He must answer Geraldine’s letter, 
and he wanted to put a little distance between himself 


232 


HIS PRISON BARS. 


and the sho,ck of it, first. The broad thoroughfare seemed 
quieting to him. The early spring air, redolent of new 
foliage and early flowers, soothed and blessed him. It 
was worth while just to live, in such an atmosphere. 
What if there were difliculties and defeats ? he thought. 
There were compensations. What if there were vexa- 
tions of spirit? Nature had her balms. Life was not all 
a vanity and a vexation ; Burley had preached truth. But 
there was a great deal of vanity about it, that was certain. 
Had he not seen much ? Was he not daily in the midst 
of it ? He knew considerable that Burley had not thor- 
oughly known. Life might be more than vanity with 
every one ; but with a great mass of the people it was that 
only. They never got on to the something more. And 
how was it with himself ? What had he done ? Had he 
gone beyond the vanity? 

He was so wrapt in his own thoughts again that he 
heard nothing of an outcry not far ahead of him, that ar- 
rested the attention of passers-by. A team of mettlesome 
horses was dashing furiously down the avenue, with no 
driver on the box. Two children, a boy and a girl, were 
in the open carriage, shrieking for terror. John heard 
their shrieks, and heeded, as the runaways came nearly 
opposite to him, and made a quick plunge for the near 
horse’s head. Luckily he caught the reins at the^ very 
bits, and though in imminent danger from the maddened 
beasts, he hung on bravely, and succeeded in partially 
stopping them. 

While the team were rearing and plunging wickedly 
about, threatening each moment to trample him under 
their feet, some one rushed from the sidewalk and, catch- 
ing the children in his arms, took them out of danger. 
It was a timely act, for hardly was it done when the high- 
blooded animal John was clinging to reared straight into 


NIGH TO THE END. 


233 


the air, lifting his captor clear from his feet and flinging 
him cruelly upon the pavement. An instant later the 
team had dashed over him and were fleeing madly on 
down the street, leaving John trampled, bleeding, and 
stunned. 

The man who had snatched the children from their 
peril sprang to him quickly. 

“ Are you badly hurt ? ” he asked, bending over him. 

There was no answer. He turned the trampled form 
over, and in the bruised and dust-grimed features he rec- 
ognized a friend. The groan he gave might have come 
from the injured man himself, it had such pain in it. 

“ Who is it. Silvers ? ” a voice asked from out the 
crowd that had gathered round. 

“ It ’s General Bremm,” he answered, hoarsely. “ Help 
me lift him up, men,” as if commanding his soldiers. 

And bleeding and still unconscious, John was borne 
away. 


234 


HIS PRISON BARS. 


CHAPTER XLVIII. 

SMITTEN DOWN. 

Concussion of the brain, the doctors called it ; and 
they gave little hope of recovery. For days Bremm lay 
in a comatose state, hanging between life and death. His 
mother was sent for, and went to him, in company with 
the Governor. She had changed little. Nothing but the 
presence of distinguished persons kept her from accus- 
tomed fault-finding and complaint. She had not much 
to do, when she reached the bedside of her son. His 
many friends gave him every attention. Senator Lascelle, 
father of the two children Bremm had saved, was untir- 
ing in his efforts ; and his wife and sister kept almost 
constant watch by the injured man. 

Miss Fay the looked daily for an answer to her letter, 
and when a whole week passed and no word came, she 
feared she knew not what. Somehow the paragraph 
which told of Bremm’s hurt did not meet her eye ; she 
did not happen to see any one who had read it. So for 
days and days her uncertainty grew, until but for prayer 
she must have gone wild. It seemed, at times, as if she 
should go wild as it was. He had taken offense, she 
thought ; or the blow she had given him was too hard, 
and he had taken to drink again. She was his murderer, 
perhaps. 

Thus her days went by until they numbered weeks, and 
every week was one long doubt, one unremitting pain. 


SMITTEN DOWN. 


235 

John slowly fought his way back to consciousness and 
life. It was a full month, though, before he had any 
realizing sense of things, and could think of what had 
passed. 

“ Silvers,” he said, just after his mind returned, “ write 
Miss Faythe for me.” 

“What shall I say, John?” his old comrade asked, 
ignorant, of course, of their present relationship. 

“Say how I have been, and that I will write her by 
and by.” 

And so , General Silvers wrote, and his letter was the 
first news Geraldine received. Her answer rather puzzled 
him. It was not written out of the heart’s fullness. She 
read his words with a great throb of joy ; and then she 
answered, briefly, dispassionately, as might any friend. 
She was very sorry General Bremm had been thus unfort- 
unate; she hoped for his speedy recovery; she should 
be glad to hear from him at his convenience. And that 
was all. 

It was clear to Silvers that these two were not quite 
what they had been to each other. It seemed clear to 
John, when he read the little note, that Geraldine could 
not love him as once she did. He sighed heavily, as he 
thought of it, and a tear dropped down upon his cheek. 
Silvers looked at him questioningly. 

“ It ’s all over between us,” Bremm said, answering the 
look. “ I tried to deserve her, but I could n’t. It ’s my 
fault, and my misfortune, both. It does n’t matter what 
becomes of me, now. Those brutes might as well have 
made an end of it all at once.” 

“There, there, John,” said Silvers, wishing to soothe 
him. “ Let it go. Don’t think about it. There are 
thousands of other women in the world.” 

“ But there ’s only one Geraldine Faythe,” he persisted. 


HIS PRISON BARS. 


236 

“ There is n’t to-day, but to-morrow there will be. I ’ll 
show you a bevy of them, then,” and Silvers laughed. 
“ Off with the old love, and on with the new,” he 
added. “ It ’s the way of the world, Bremm. Women 
seldom die of love ; men never do ; ” and to escape his 
friend’s rebuke, and also to afford him no opportunity for 
answer. Silvers left the room. 

They took Bremm home to Liscomb, as soon as he 
could bear the journey, pausing a day at Baylan, en route. 
Silvers accompanied them. 

“ I want you to take this to Miss Faythe,” John said 
to him, soon after they reached the capital city, hand- 
ing him a note. “ I should like to call upon her. This 
will introduce you. Tell her my wish, and see what hers 
may be.” 

It was an errand General Silvers did not fancy, but he 
made no opposition. He had had a strong desire to 
meet the young lady, until of late. Even now he found 
it stirring within him again. 

He said little, when he returned. 

“She would be glad to see you,” was his report. “I 
will get a carriage, and take you there at once, if you 
think it best to go.” 

“ And why should n’t I go ? ” John asked, half impa- 
tiently, for he was still nervous and weak. 

“ I have not said you should n’t,” and Silvers smiled. 

“ But you think I had better not.” 

“ Well, I can’t see as it will do you any good. If it is 
all over between you, why trouble yourself any further ? ” 

“ But I want to see her.” 

“ So I suppose.” 

“ And she wants to see me.” 

“ So she says.” 

“Well?” 


SMITTEN DOWN 


237 

“It is n’t well at all, Bremm. You claim to love this 
young lady. Have you thought that it might be for her 
happiness for you to keep away from her ? ” 

“ Then why does she ask me to come ? ” 

Silvers shook his head doubtfully. 

“ She is a woman, Bremm,” was his dubious reply. 

“ But she is my friend, she says.” 

“ Love is not a good thing to build friendship on.” 

“ She cannot love me now, or she would not have 
thrown me aside as she has done,” speaking a trifle 
bitterly. 

“I tell you, John Bremm,” and Silvers spoke with un- 
usual soberness, “ she loves you as deeply as ever she did. 
I ’d give my life, almost, to have such a woman love me 
in such wise. You told the truth when you said there 
was only one Geraldine Faythe.” 

“ Then why should I give her up without an effort ? ” 
and John roused himself as if further talk were use- 
less. 

“You shouldn’t, Bremm. But take my advice. Let 
all your effort be toward a sober life. It will do you no 
good to try any other course with her. She will do what 
she thinks is right, or there ’s no truth in her face.” 

“Yes, I know,” a bit of dejection creeping into his 
voice. 

And without further remark the two entered a carriage . 
and drove off. 

Arrived at Miss Faythe’s, Silvers helped John in, and 
then took leave, promising to call for him in an hour, 
which he did. 

John was not inclined to talk much, as they drove back 
to the hotel. Once again in their room, though, he be- 
gan, as it were, to think aloud. 

“ I can’t understand it at all,” he said. “I believe she 


HIS PRISON BARS. 


238 

does love me as well as ever, but why does she put me 
away so ? and why does she refuse to explain ? ” 

Did you seek an explanation ? ” 

“ To be sure I did. But she would not give it. I tried 
entreaty and reproach ; and neither served me. I have 
always believed her the very soul of truth and frankness, 
and now it is a riddle I cannot solve.” 

“Better not try solving it, Bremm. If Miss Faythe 
really loves you yet, and I think she does, it will all come 
out right some time. Your chief business now is to get 
well and strong. Love requires good digestion, fair 
nerves, and a healthy liver, to thrive properly. These 
fellows who shoot themselves, because a woman throws 
them over, are more troubled with their livers than their 
hearts. It is dyspepsia that kills them, and not love.” 

“ Silvers,” said John, very solemnly, “ did you ever 
really love a woman ? ” 

“ Bless you, old boy ! of course. A dozen of them, first 
and last. Why not ask me if I ever had the measles ? 
They are both catching, and — both curable,” and Sil- 
vers laughed so heartily that his friend found the laughter 
likewise infectious, and joined in, despite previous sober- 
ness. 

“That ’s right,” Silvers declared. “ That ’s the kind of 
tonic for you. A dozen such laughs a day will put you 
into good loving condition. Be sure you take them.” 

But Bremm needed more than laughter, it seemed, for 
as the days crept on he did not gain much in strength. 
He rode up and down the pretty village of his. early 
home ; he chatted pleasantly with' his friends ; he grew 
better, somewhat, yet only slowly. The doctors said he 
must not go to Ossoli, for the very presence, even, of his 
work, would tax him. He could not think of resuming 
his seat in Congress. Wearisome as it was, he must sim- 


SMITTEN DOWN. 


239 

ply stay there in Liscomb, and bear as patiently as he 
might with his mother’s chronic troubles, his own physical 
inability, his own unsatisfied state of mind. 

The doctors prescribed stimulants, and said he must 
take them regularly, to build him up. Two months ago 
he would have questioned if to take such prescription, 
after all his fight against temptation, were judicious and 
best. Now he was weak and nervous, and not a little 
discouraged. It was an easy thing to yield. Presently 
his medicine became his beverage. He grew fleshy and 
stout — the medicine agreed with him. But he grew 
blear-eyed and over-plethoric, and when at length he 
could go to Ossoli, to enter again upon journalistic duty, 
they who knew him best and loved him most were grieved 
and pained at the great change in his appearance. It 
was well for Geraldine Faythe that she saw nothing of 
him in those wretched months that followed. 

If only I could leave that summer out of his life ! His 
excesses were common talk. Good men mourned over 
them. His own party friends remonstrated with him, and 
sought earnestly to stay his hand. He either laughed at 
their warnings, 6r wept in the bitterness of his remorse, 
and then went straight on in the habit of indulgence. He 
was largely unfitted for professional work ; it seemed a 
question, indeed, if he would be fit to enter Congress again. 

Finally he was smitten down. The frenzy of drink 
possessed him. How the fiends mocked ! how they fast- 
ened on him, and would not let him go ! If anything in 
the past had been sad, this was sadder than all the past 
had been. I cannot picture it. I can only turn aside 
with a shudder and a sigh. So young, and so fair, and so 
fallen ! And oh the curse of it ! 

Let us look away from the shadow, to the sunlight that 
shone beyond. 


HIS PRISON BARS. 


240 

Burley, going up to' Ossoli for a day only, found Bremm 
in a state which he could compare to nothing but hell 
begun here. He sent a dispatch to Hope. “John is 
dangerously ill ; I shall stay,’’ it said ; and then he as- 
sumed entire charge of his friend. He could control him 
as none other might. But every day was almost an agony 
of torment. If ever man prayed, Burley did, every hour, 
well-nigh with every breath. 

When the devils went out of the man they had so sorely 
beset, Burley was almost as weak as he. But there was 
work for both, yet. One must lead the other back to 
manhoo’d once more; and a weary task it was. The 
other must fight his way upward over thorns that pricked 
him to the quick. “ Not yet have ye resisted unto blood, 
fighting against sin,” Burley said to him. “You must do 
it now, or die.” 

“ It is no use ; I shall die anyhow,” and he wept until 
Burley wept with him. 

But Burley was strong of spirit, if weak in the flesh. 
He held him up. 

“ I am striving for a soul, Hope,” he wrote his wife. 
“ Pray for us.” 

To Miss Faythe he wrote, “ Our friend Bremm is in 
deep waters, struggling for life. If you can call to him a 
cheering word, God may bless it.” 

And she did call to him, so nobly, so tenderly, that her 
cry would have risen above any tumult of storm. She 
must have written that letter on her knees, Burley thought. 
It said nothing of love, as lovers know it. As a large- 
hearted elder sister she appealed to him, forgetful, as it 
seemed, that he had ever been aught to her in the deepest 
sense, only remembering what he might be to himself and 
his fellows, what he was to God. 

“ ‘ He that loseth his life for my sake,’ she said, ‘ shall 


SMITTEN DOWN. 


241 

find it/ Christ is speaking the words now, as He spake 
them so long ago. Are you losing your life ? Let the 
loss be for his sake, and you shall find far more than 
you can hope or I can tell. His is a sweet promise to 
such as have found their life in Him : ‘ Lo, I am with 
you always, even unto the end.’ We need no other 
presence, no other comfort, no other strength. All in 
our past that is dead, but might live again to our profit. 
He will surely make alive for us, in His own good time. 
‘I am the resurrection and the life,’ He has declared. 
Apart from Him there is only death. With Him all true 
things live on forever, and what a sweet association it 
n St be.” 

. ‘urley found nearly as much help in the letter as did 
John. It was so strong in conscious faith. It was so 
simple and so direct. 

Hope also wrote. “Bring John here, as soon as he 
can come,” was her closing suggestion. 

And so presently he was an inmate of their little home, 
with Hope’s sisterly ministry to supplement the work of 
nature, the devoted watchfulness of Burley, the prayer of 
three strong, prayerful souls, and the strivings of the 
Spirit of God. 

This is not a record of religious experience, and there- 
fore I shall not tell how from the darkness of sin and 
doubt John struggled slowly up to the light of loving 
trust in Christ. It would have been a hard struggle at 
best. It was made harder by the fact that he needs 
must fight all the while against an appetite he could not 
appease, as well as against doubt, and shame, and his 
own will. A hard struggle, indeed. If you have it yet to 
go through, God pity you ! A hard struggle, but he won 
at last, won more than a mere victory, for he won peace. 

“ I have found my life,” he wrote to Miss Faythe, then. 

i6 


242 


HIS PRISON BARS. , 


I have found my life, and have come into great joy. 
In prison long, I am finally free. The way of escape was 
hid in Jesus Christ, and I would not try to find it. I see 
my mistake now ; and in beginning again am striving to 
begin right. Of all my dead past there is but one thing 
I would see live once more, and that I leave with God.’' 

When John Bremm went out again among men, in his 
accustomed walks, he was still weak in body, but growing 
strong of soul. He had entered upon his inheritance — 
true manhood in Christ. Not a stalwart manhood, at 
first, but to be that sometime, if God willed. How 
changed he was, physically, all saw ; how changed he was 
in his inner being, very many felt. 

He did his work a while, but in such weakness and 
weariness that his associates advised an entire letting it 
alone, a leisurely tour somewhere, until he must go to 
Washington. They planned a month’s journeying, he 
and Burley, and would have started in two days more. 
Then a hemorrhage prostrated him, and the plan was 
changed. Liscomb air would deal as kindly with him as 
any other, the physicians said. 

“ We will all go to Liscomb,” Burley decided for him. 
“ Hope wants a good long visit home, and I want to be 
near you.” 

But even in Liscomb John did not build up his strength. 
The seeds of pulmonary disease had been sown while in 
camp, medical advisers reasoned ; these had developed 
silently amid the excitement and dissipation of more 
recent years ; it was one of those rapid, insidious cases 
that almost baffled remedy at the first manifestation. 
Another attack of bleeding followed, soon after their 
arrival in Liscomb, and he grew rapidly worse. In a 
week, it seemed certain that he would never be any better 
Burley felt that he must speak. 


SMITTEN DOWN 


243 

“ Have you thought that you may never get well 
John ? ” he asked. 

“Yes, I have thought so for some days.’’ 

“ There is very little hope left for you, the doctor says, 
John.” 

“ But he ’s wrong there,” and he spoke earnestly j 
“wrong there, ’Bert. There’s the Great Hope left — 
nobody can take that away from me.” 

“Thank God for that, John ! You are satisfied, then, 
are you, that it will be all right ? ” 

“ Oh yes ! ” and the confidence in his voice told more 
than the syllables could. 

“Is there anything I can do for you, John ? ” with a 
little quaver in the question. 

The sick man’s look wandered away out of the window 
near, across the valley, and far off to the bending sky 
beyond. 

“ I should like to see Geraldine once more,” he whis- 
pered. “ It seems as if I could n’t go, without.” 

A tear rolled down his cheek, and dropped upon his 
hand. 

“ I will go after her, John.” 

“ Do you think she will come ? ” his face lighting into 
half a smile. 

“ She is a true woman, John. She will do what she 
believes to be right.” 

“ And it would be right for her to come ? ” 

“ I think it would, for she is your friend. To-morrow 
I will go and see.” 


244 


HIS PRISON BARS. 


CHAPTER XLIX. 

AT THE LAST. 

Two days later, at mid-afternoon, John sat bolstered 
up in an easy-chair, looking out into the late October 
sunshine. His mother had been kept awake with him 
more than usual, the night before, and had gone to sleep 
now, so that he was alone. ThA flush of autumnal glory 
was departing ; here and there a tree flamed out as 
brilliantly as ever, but the general glow had faded into 
sombreness. The sick man’s face reflected somewhat the 
sober tints outside. 

A rustle at the door, and Hope came in. 

“ Are you alone, John ? ” ' 

“ Is it you, Hope ? ” he asked, faintly, in return. 
“Yes. I was thinking how it says, ‘We all do fade as 
the leaf.’ In one sense it is n’t trtie. Those leaves yon- 
der have done their work ; but what have I done ? ” 

“Your work, too, John, I suppose; God knows best 
about these things.” 

“ But they have lived out the measure of their life ; I 
am only on the threshold of mine, it seems to me.” 

“ So it would seem if you were many years older, per- 
haps. This life is only the threshold, whether we are 
young or aged ; but from it we can step right into one of 
the many mansions. Think of it, John ! ” 

“ Yes ; I have thought — ‘ the many mansions ’ ! I shall 
not be homeless any mbre,” his tone dropping so low the 
words were scarcely audible. 


AT THE LAST 


245 


After a moment’s silence Hope spoke again. 

“Albert has come, John.” 

“ Why, how could he get here so soon .? The stage 
does not come until night.” 

“ No ; but he drove over, sq as to save time.” 

“ Did he come alone .? ” 

“ No, John. Miss Faythe is with him. They are in 
the other room now.” 

He turned his head away, and said no word. 

“ Can you bear it now, John? ” 

“ Yes ; let her come in.” 

A moment later,' and Hope had gone, and in her place, 
pale and trembling almost as him she came to see, stood 
Geraldine Faythe. 

She bent over him and pressed her lips to his. There 
were moments of silence, before either spoke. 

“ I could not bear to go away forever without kissing 
you good-by,” he said. “ And I wanted to tell you I am 
not afraid to go.” 

Her only answer was a great sob of grief. 

“ You love me yet, darling, or you would not have 
come.” 

“ I would have come even as your friend ; I must come, 
after all that has passed between us. If you will let me, I 
will stay.” 

He smiled amid his tears. 

“ Yes ; stay with Hope,” he answered, “ and come in as 
often as you may.” 

“ But why can I not stay with you ? ” she asked appeal- 
ingly. “ You will not put me from you now, John ? Give 
me the right to stay,” and her face burned to crimson at 
the request. 

He kissed her tenderly, a great struggle in his breast. 

“ At the very last, Geraldine, would you be my wife ? ” 


HIS PRISON BARS. 


246 ' 

“ It is my right,” she said, steadily. 

“ But why did you put me from you ? ” and the pained 
wonder in his face stabbed her to the heart. 

“ I did not want to, John. I never loved you more than 
when I did just that.” 

“ I cannot understand ” — 

“ Don’t talk now, dear, and I ’ll tell you. I wanted you 
to do right just for the right’s sake, and not for mine. You 
were practicing temperate habits because I wished it. 
You were not building on motives that would last, and I 
feared for what would come of it all. I was afraid if you 
let the drink alone in the hope of winning me, you might 
take to it again when you had succeeded. It was in the 
belief that you would find a higher motive that I took 
away the lower one. I may have been wrong, darling ; 
but I thought I was doing right.” 

She paused, and wiped the gathering tears from her 
eyes. 

“ I never doubted your love, John, and I never doubted 
that God would shape it all, some way. If we really trust 
to Him we cannot go far astray.” 

“ But does it seem right to you that my life should end 
so soon, just when I am beginning to live ? ” 

“ No j it does not seem right, but I know God cannot 
make mistakes. He would not be God, if He did. I am 
certain of that ; and it does not matter so much how 
things seem to us, as how they are to Him. 

“You must not talk any longer, darling,” she resumed. 
“ Only say I shall stay; that I may have the right.” 

“ I want to, Geraldine ; I want to say it. But it does 
not seem the best thing for you now. I would not leave 
you widowed. If you could stay near until ” — he paused, 
unable, for an instant, to go on. 

Burley and Hope came in then. Geraldine went 
straight to them. 


AT THE LAST. 


247 

“ Mr. Burley,” she said, without manifest shrinking, 
“ do you know of any good reason why I should not be- 
come John’s wife ? ” 

“ None at all. Miss Faythe, if you choose to take that 
responsibility.” 

“ Mrs. Burley, do you 1 ” 

For answer, Hope threw her arms around the ques- 
tioner, and kissed her as a sister might have done. 

“ Shall it be this afternoon, John ? ” Burley asked. 

“ Let it be as she says,” was the tremulous answer. 

“ Rest for an hour, then,” said Burley, “ and I will 
arrange everything meantime. You go and notify Mrs. 
Bremm, Hope, and then take Miss Faythe home with you 
till I come.” 

It was a very touching little tableau they made in that 
same room, toward the sunset. John sat there still, 
bolstered up with pillows, and a smile of real heart-glad- 
ness lighting up his wan face. Miss Faythe stood beside 
him, decked out in no bridal array, but more beautiful in 
John’s sight than ever she had been before. On either 
side were Burley and Hope, and in front waited the 
clergyman so hastily summoned. Mrs. Bremm stood 
near, fairly dumb from surprise, and perhaps fortunately 
so ; while as other witnesses there were present only Mr. 
and Mrs. Hensell. 

John was the only one who smiled, through it all, and 
even his smile faded into a strange, indefinable look of 
awe as the minister uttered those final sober words, — 

“ And what God hath joined together, let not man put 
asunder.” 

Their kisses for the bride were as sober as his words, 
after the “ Amen ” had been said. Mrs. Bremm found 
utterance when she gave hers. There was not much of it 
for one so voluble. 


248 


HIS PRISON BARS. 


“ I shall love you,’’ she declared, a trifle hysterically, 
“ because you love my boy,” and then she walked hastily 
out. 

When it was over, and the others had gone, Burley and 
Hope went away, leaving the twain alone together. The 
slant sunset rays streamed into the room, and fell across 
their faces, as they sat side by side, his head resting upon 
her breast. 

“ It is the end of a day,” he whispered. “ Oh, darling ! 
if it were only the morning ! ” 

“ The morning will come soon, dear heart.” 

“ But there is a night between.” 

“True, darling. Yet there are always stars. ‘Though 
I walk through the valley of the shadow of death I will 
fear no evil, for thou art with me.’ ” 

“ And ‘ thy rod and thy staff they comfort me ! ’” 
“ There is comfort, even in his rod, Geraldine. I could 
not have believed it, once.” 

And so tliey found comfort for each other. 

John rallied a little, in a day or two, and they almost 
began to hope. But he sank again, shortly after, and it 
was clear that the end was nigh. A week from the wed- 
ding, John called Burley to him. 

“ You will preach the funeral sermon, ’Bert ? ” he said. 

“ Ask anything but that,” his friend replied, chok- 
ingly. 

“ But you must,” speaking now with an effort. “ Let 
it be in the church, for I want all who may to hear. Tell 
how I failed — how I failed — and — why.” 

The words came hesitatingly, as if he could not quite 
shape them as he wished. 

“ There is a verse about — overcoming. I can’t tell — 
find that.” 


AT THE LAST. 249 

Burley turned to Revelation, and in one of the final 
chapters he read, — 

“ He that overcometh shall inherit all things ; and I 
will be his God and he shall be my son,” 

“ That is it,” and he spoke with more energy. Use 
that for your text, and tell them how they may overcome. 
Make my life an example to others who are living as I 
have lived, and it may be worth while after all.” 

Burley could not speak. 

“Promise me, ’Bert,” John appealed, and the promise 
was given. 

He died at sunset, reclining in his easy-chair, his face 
turned toward the west, and those who loved him gathered 
round. General Silvers and Governor Bremm had come, 
and stood by, tearful even as the rest. They did not 
think him going, just then. He had lain silent some 
minutes with closed eyes. Suddenly he roused a little, 
opened his eyes, and smiled. A golden ray of sunlight 
shone across his face. His lips moved as if he would 
speak. Geraldine bent low, that she might surely hear. 

“ It is the morning, darling,” he said, clear and strong. 
“ He that overcometh — shall inherit — all things.” 

They could scarcely catch the final words. His eyes 
shut tremulously ; a faint smile hovered below them ; he 
was gone. He had entered upon his everlasting inher- 
itance. 

“ ‘ And there shall be no night there,’ ” said Geraldine, 
as if speaking to herself and to him. 

“ ‘ Neither sorrow nor crying, neither shall there be any 
more pain,’ ” Burley added ; “ ‘ for the former things are 
passed away.’ ” 


250 


HIS PRISON BARS. 


CHAPTER L. 

“he that overcometh.” 

So large a funeral had never been seen in Liscomb. 
The regiment of militia which had its head-quarters there, 
turned out with full ranks, in honor of the dead. The 
Governor’s Guards came on from Baylan, as chief mili- 
tary escort, and the Governor’s entire staff came with 
them. Ossoli sent a large delegation from its civic and 
military associations. All Liscomb had heard how there 
had been a death-bed marriage, and nearly every man, 
woman, and child must witness the final scene. The 
largest church was packed with people, in all its available 
space, long before the procession arrived, and hundreds 
crowded about the entrance, who could not make their 
way in. It was with the greatest difficulty that those in 
charge could keep clear the space reserved for the mourn- 
ers and the troops. 

There were little children outside, who will never for- 
get how solemnly sounded the dirge of the Governor’s 
Guards Band, as that procession filed slowly along the 
street. Even to those who had heard such a dirge often, 
it seemed more than commonly solemn. And when the 
slow, measured tread of the soldiers sounded through . the 
church, and they placed the coffin down in front of the 
pulpit, the band all the while playing softly, sadly, with- 
out, one great sob shook the whole concourse, and strong 
men wept like the women at their side. 


“ HE THA T O VERCOME THR 2 5 I 

Governor Bremm escorted his sister-in-law, and Geral- 
dine leaned upon the arm of General Silvers. Burley left 
Hope at the door, with her parents, and entered the pul- 
pit with the clergyman who had served at the marriage, 
and who regularly officiated there. It was a trying po- 
sition for him. As much as any other there, save Geral- 
dine, was he' smitten in heart. He had seldom spoken to 
a Liscomb audience — never from the church desk. He 
hardly sensed what was passing until the opening exer- 
cises had been gone through with, and he stood up before 
that vast gathering to fulfill the promise he had made. I 
cannot give the sermon as he gave it, although a complete 
report lies before me as I write. It must lack something 
of the sober tremulousness of his tone, and all the solem- 
nity which waited upon the words. It was a full minute 
after he rose, before he could utter a syllable. Then he 
spoke so low that but for the perfect stillness resting upon 
all, he could not have been heard. 

I cannot feel that my place is in the pulpit to-day. I ought 
of right to sit there, among those who mourn, that I might 
weep with them for a dear friend dead. He who lies in the 
coffin here was as near to me, almost, as to any of his kin. 
We were boys together, we had our boyish sympathies, our 
boyish pursuits. We grew to manhood in company, and since 
manhood began we have been friends the same. All that he 
was, I knew; all that he hoped to become I knew, also. 
Wherein he failed I saw ; and of his successes none of us are 
ignorant. And because of my intimate relations to him I stand 
up now, in the midst of so many who knew him and loved him, 
to speak of his life as he wished me to speak of it, honestly, 
plainly, as in the hearing of Him who is the giver of all life. 

“ He that overcometh shall inherit all things,” was his own 
chosen Scripture for this occasion. He died with the words on 
his lips. “ Tell them how I failed,” he said to me, on that sad 
day when he went away from us forever. “ Make my life an 


252 


ms PRISON BARS. 


example to others who are living as I have lived,” was his last 
injunction, “ and then it may be worth while.” 

And did he fail, friends ? What will the world say ? What 
will these youths say, who remember him as a printer boy 
among you, when they were studying their primers ? What 
will they say who seek what he won — fame in the uniform 
of a soldier ; power in the halls of state ; influence through 
the public press ? Was it failure, to win all this ? They will 
tell me nay — the boys who hear my question ; the grown-up 
men who play at soldiering ; the politicians who study states- 
manship, and aspire to place. He was poor and unlearned ; 
he pushed his way up to plenty and knowledge. He did 
brave things for his country ; he wrought nobly for himself. 
He went from your midst unknown, unhonored ; he came back 
a hero, who had earned recognition and honor ; he is dead, 
and lo ! what a multitude of mourners ! And can this be 
failure ? 

If he had not put the word into my mouth, I should scarcely 
dare use it as I do. “ Tell them how I failed,” he said. He 
trusted that I knew. Will you also take my knowledge upon 
trust, until I make it plain ? 

“ He that overcometh.” These were his test words, if I 
caught the meaning of his Scripture choice. The phrase im- 
plies a somewhat to overcome. He was a soldier, and he 
knew that overcoming means victory ; that both imply an 
enemy to fight. And what had he to fight ? More than pov- 
erty, friends ; more than ignorance, and injustice, and a hard 
fate. One may overcome each of these, and never find the 
inheritance our text hints of. His worst ,foe was not from 
without, but from within. When it stood without it was not a 
foe, as he saw it, as so many of us see it. It was a pleasant 
friend. It smiled upon him. It beguiled him. When it en- 
tered within, it was his master ; it enchained his will, and de- 
throned his better sense, and ate out the finer threads of his 
moral nature. Without, it was congenial company, the cour- 
tesies of good society, occasional indulgence ; within, it was 
habit, appetite, the very hunger of thirst, yieldings innumer- 
able. Without, it was honorable political association, and the 


HE THAT OVERCOMETHT 


253 

means by which preferment is secured ; within, it was a tend- 
ing down, a blunting of the moral sense, a settling away from 
the sure ground of sobriety on which alone a man can hold 
what he gets. 

Our friend overcame much, but not until very near the end 
did he overcome himself. How could he ? For years he was 
in prison, and he knew it not. His prison bars were the 
smooth surroundings of political place, the frequent yieldings 
to practices doubtful, the not rare employment of agencies 
which should put respectability to the blush. Can a man 
touch pitch and not be defiled ? Can a man sit safely in his 
seat of honor who has floated there upon a tide of intoxicating 
drinks ? Can a man’s manhood hold always its noble crown, 
when he, for office, barters the manhood of his fellows, and 
recks not the terrible cost .? I say he was in prison, — this 
our dear friend, so eloquent in his silence, — and he knew it 
not. He learned the way of escape at last, it is true, but too 
late. He was free once, free to make of his manhood a thing 
grand and glorious, as the young Nazarene made his, ages 
ago ; free to work out a success nobler than any he did work 
out ; free to overcome, in the sense the Scripture means it, 
and to inherit all things of his Father in Heaven. Behind his 
prison bars he came down to death’s door oftener than you 
know, and I shudder to think of the end, had he entered 
through. 

The separate successes he won were not failures, measured 
as separate facts. But group them all together and they made 
one great, sad failure, because they did not build him up into 
a worthier, stronger manhood, as they might have done. Yes, 

I recognize the truth that success before the world may beau- 
tify and broaden a life. All real glory of living is not shut 
away in a corner. The peasant may shine it out upon his 
household ; and with it a king may illumine his kingdom. 
But outward success may be inward failure, after all ; it com- 
monly is. Suppose our friend had lived always the sober, ab- 
stemious life he might have lived, and had stood up unswerv- 
ingly for correct practices. He might have done this, and won 
all he won, — aye, and how much more ! 


254 


HIS PRISON BARS. 


And what if he had won all he sought ? Will any one say 
he would be poorer now ? “ He that overcometh shall inherit.” 
We do not earn all we have. More comes to us than we think. 
We have nothing that is not God’s — nothing worthful, and to 
be desired. Some things come to us here from our Father’s 
open hand ; who shall tell us of the “ all things ” we are to be 
possessed of by and by, if only we overcome ? An endless 
day, a perfect peace, an illimitable joy ! The few things we 
have here find an end ; the peace we purchase is never a per- 
fect peace; the joy comes to grief. But the “all things” of 
our inheritance will know no ending. Oh ! if our friend could 
but syllable some words to us, from amid the new possession 
he has entered on ! Even the words there must be sweeter 
than our words, for they never breathe of pain, or failure, or 
disappointment. And the songs — hark ! I look down in my 
dead friend’s face here, and I see his smile, as I shall always 
see it, the same smile that was his good-by. “ It is the 
morning,” he said, and I think he heard the morning’s music 
as he spoke, so glad he looked. Gaze into his face, presently, 
and mayhap you shall fancy him listening to that grand matin 
song the angels ever sing above each Christian’s grave : “ I 
am the resurrection and the life ! ” 

I have told you wherein I think our friend failed, and why. 
But if his life was in the best sense a failure, his death was in 
the same sense a success. “Like as a father pitieth his chil- 
dren, so the Lord pitieth them that fear Him ” — so, I have 
often thought, does He pity us all. He lets us begin over 
again so many times ! If we build wrong, we may rebuild, 
and in his infinite pity there is ever room. If we work poorly, 
we may try once more, and be blessed. “ It is the morning,” 
our friend declared, as he went out of this life on earth. It is 
morning with many here to-day, and the work you have begun 
is poor and crude. God sees and pities, and will let you try 
again, if you only will. “ Work while the day lasts ; for the 
night cometh in which no man can work.” Yes, work, and 
fight, and win. Our promise is sure : “ He that overcometh 
shall inherit all things ! ” The infinite riches are certain to 
such as are beirs of God. 


''HE THAT OVERCOMETHT 255 

1 have not given the whole sermon, but enough to show 
you how brave, and touching, and true it was. • 

Hundreds of that awed multitude followed the remains 
as they were borne away for burial. The solemn dirge 
seemed yet more solemn since the solemn service. At 
the grave there was little said or done. 

“ ‘ And I heard a voice from heaven, saying unto me. Write, 
Blessed are the dead which die in the Lord.’ 

“ ‘ I am the resurrection and the life.’ 

“ ‘ Because I live, ye shall live also.’ 

“ Thus saith the Scripture to us,” were the preacher’s 
words, as they lowered the coffin down. “ Ashes to 
ashes, and dust to dust, until it is the resurrection morn- 
ing for us all ! ” 

The soldiers fired a salute, which echoed and reechoed 
along the hushed valley; and John Bremm had gone 
away forever. 

I left Baylan soon after this, and did not go back, ex- 
cept to pass through, for two years. Then one evening 
we had a little reunion at the Latimers’, such of our old 
coterie as could come together. She that had been Ger- 
aldine Faythe was there. Her ways had not changed 
much. She seemed a little more subdued in manner 
than formerly, and I caught a look of longing in her face, 
when we spoke of the old times. 

“ I spent most of a year at Liscomb, after Mr. Bremm’s 
death,” she said, in answer to a question of mine. “ His 
mother needed me.” 

“ She took his loss very hard, I suppose ? ” 

“ Yes ; for a while she complained a great deal. I 
could not bear to leave her so. Then she began to run 
down, and I stayed till she died.” 

“ It must have been a great trial for you.” 


HIS PRISON BARS. 


256 

“ Mrs. Bremm changed considerably, toward the last,’’ 
she answered. “ She had a good heart, and she came to 
see many things in a better light. Besides, I had this 
for my comfort : ‘ He that overcometh shall inherit all 
things,’ ” and her eyes mellowed to a deeper tenderness at 
the words. 

Next day General Silvers chanced to ride with me on 
the train. 

“I saw John Bremm’s Geraldine last night,” said I. 

“ Ah ? ” and he smiled. “ I have seen her often since 
Bremm’s death. She is a rare woman.” 

“ It seems. a pity that she cannot make some man’s life 
happy, now that John is gone.” 

“ Yes,” and a queer expression accompanied his assent. 
“ It is a pity. Perhaps she will, by and by. Bremm was 
right, when he used to say there was only one Geraldine 
Faythe.” 

I learned the other day that Silvers is unmarried yet. 
It may be an odd fancy of mine, but I cannot help think- 
ing he is waiting and hoping to win her. 


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THE THIRD EDITION 


^SLEEP IN THE SANCTUM, 


POEMS. 



BY 


ALPHONSO A. HOPKINS. 


Square 161110; uniform in style with “His Prison Bars.” 

Price, $1.50. 


Hopkins’ verse is smooth as the limpid waters, and genial and warm as the spring 
sunshine. There is heart in his metre, as well as genuine poetry. — Syracuse Daily 
Courier. 

Abounds in short, naturally expressed lyrics, which appeal to every mood and to 
every shade of feeling and of fancy incident to the great common heart of humanity. 
All the poems are exceedingly perfect in melody, and some of them are rare and 
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perusal of the work. . . . I'here is no one who has a home or a heart, who has 

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Rochester Daily Detnocrat and Chronicle. 

A. A. Hopkins, editor of The Rural Home, Rochester, has found time, amid 
the arduous labors of editorial life, to weave many fancies in the warp and woof of 
the poet's loom. _ 'I'he grace of his style is everywhere apparent, while hitmor and 
pathos alternate in varied productions, attesting at once the versatility of his talent 
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If the burden of the sanctum ever weighed heavily, it does not show itself in these 
poems. They are sometimes pensive, but ever bright and fresh. They are fragrant 
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they are worthy of all commendation. — Albany Evenmg yournal. 


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